


Curse of Kings

by LeslieFish



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-24
Updated: 2004-02-24
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:33:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieFish/pseuds/LeslieFish
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Curse of Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Curse of Kings by Leslie Fish

_Curse of Kings_

By Leslie Fish 

* * *

**France, 1928**

Dr. Sean Burns had noted the date on his calendar, so when the secretary announced that an 'Adam Walters' was here to see him, Sean knew who it was. 

'Ah, Walters!' he enthused. 'Yes, I've been waiting for him. Send him straight to my private office -- oh, and please cancel all my remaining appointments.' 

'Very good, sir,' chirped the secretary, reassured, therefore likely to forget the visitor soon. 

A moment later the office door opened and Methos walked in. He looked healthy: lightly tanned with a faint flush under it, lean and spare as always without being dangerously thin, dark-brown hair cut ex-military short, nothing evasive in his hazel eyes. 'Sean, _mon ami!_ ' he beamed, arms wide -- displaying the fact that one hand held a paper-wrapped bottle. 

'Adam!' Sean replied with equal enthusiasm, for the benefit of the secretary peering from behind Methos' shoulder. 'It's been too long. Do come in, sit down, and tell me what's happened since I saw you last.' 

The secretary nodded approval, shut the door and went away. 

Sean gave Methos a quick pat on the shoulder, then slipped behind him to lock the door with a quiet but decisive click. 'That old dragon takes too much care of me,' he said, turning back to his guest. 'But, to misquote Shakespeare, is that a bottle that I see before me?' 

'It is indeed.' Methos pulled away the paper with a flourish. 'A full quart of the finest Danish cherry liqueur, best served over ice.' 

'Ah, for that I'll summon back the dragon. Best unlock the door again while I make the call.' Sean went to the inter-house phone on his desk. 'Hmmm, and a pair of pony-glasses too, I presume.' 

The secretary was prompt, and within ten minutes Sean had a bucket of ice at hand, the door relocked, the fire in the grate built up, loaded glasses in both their hands and both of them comfortably seated on the overstuffed couch. Methos sprawled in his usual loose-limbed fashion, basking in the warmth of the fire, looking admirably relaxed. Sean took an experimental sip of the almost-glowing red liquid, and managed not to grimace as the incredible sweetness -- and bite -- grabbed his mouth. _What proof is this stuff?!_ he wondered, trying to get a closer look at the bottle. _It could knock down a horse!_ 'Exquisite,' he said aloud. 'You have such a nose for the finest food and drink, old friend.' 

'Jokes about my nose aside, that's why I keep returning to France,' Methos purred, and swallowed a healthy mouthful as if it were water. 'There's an amazing new restaurant just opened in Paris, in the Les Halles district of all places, called 'Au Pied du Cochon' if you please, and it serves the most incredible medallions of veal in white mushroom sauce. You simply must get up to the city sometime and try it.' He took another hefty swig. 

_Is he trying to get drunk?_ Sean wondered, sipping a few fiery drops. 'Later, later, I promise. For now, we have a good warm fire and this excellent cherry potion right here. Let's get comfortable and trade news.' Deliberately, he pulled off his shoes and coat and tie. 'So, what have you been up to for the past year?' 

Methos likewise slipped out of his suit-coat and shoes, and loosened his tie a little. 'There isn't much news from my end, I'm afraid,' he said, wriggling his shoulders against the couch's soft backrest. 'I've been travelling a bit, as a freelance journalist should, mostly checking my investments... Ah, be warned: don't put any money in the American stock-market; its security precautions are so lax, I swear, they're riding for a fall.' 

'The closest I have to that is in Canadian wheat futures,' Sean admitted. 'But what else have you seen, besides brokerages and restaurants?' 

'A plethora of Jazz clubs.' Methos took another mouthful of the ruby liqueur. 'Some interesting experiments in Modern Art: most of it's trash, of course, but there are a few remarkable pieces, and artists. Amazing developments in cinema; I swear, integral sound-tracks will come before the decade is out.' 

'Talking cinema? Incredible. What exciting times these are.' 

'Perhaps too exciting.' Methos frowned into his glass. 'The same old evils, in gaudy new packaging. Sometimes I wonder if humanity will ever pull out of it...' 

'Out of what?' Sean nudged. 

'Old evil,' Methos muttered, 'The curse of King Soroas...' He abruptly emptied his glass and reached for the bottle to refill it. 'But it's your turn, Sean. What's happened to you in the past year?' 

_Definitely trying to get drunk,_ Sean judged, _Or at least anesthetized. 'Soroas'? Remember that name, and be patient._ 'A surprising number of cases of cynical despair: understandable, I suppose, in the wake of the Great War. Wasn't it Julius Caesar who noted that crime and cynicism rise after a war?' 

'He was just the man to notice,' Methos smiled, 'Being an outrageously crooked politician and a master cynic himself. Still, he did choose his idealistic grand-nephew as his heir. Perhaps he had hopes for the world's improvement.' 

'Ah, don't we all,' Sean agreed. 'Perhaps it's the lack of that hope that causes these new cases I see so often. I have to wonder what creates it.' 

'Miserable experience, no doubt.' Methos raised his glass in a vague salute, then took a mouthful from it. 'God knows, there are plenty of opportunities around today. Watch out for that buffoon Mussolini; he's more dangerous than he looks, and he's done some nasty things in North Africa. Likewise another overgrown warlord, named Chiang Kai-Shek, in China.' 

'Well, there are always bastards grabbing political power somewhere,' Sean agreed. 'As a journalist, you're in a fine position to warn the world about them.' 

'If only people will listen,' Methos sighed. 'For most, it's simply assumed to be business as usual: the way things have always been, and always will be. Mortals can be so time-blind...' 

'That's what historians are for, I think. To remind them of past lessons.' 

'And 'those who will not learn from history'...' Methos shook his head. 'So much gets lost, forgotten. I wonder if humanity can ever learn. At least it can change. I know it can change.' 

'Bravo. So we all do our little parts to make it change for the better.' 

'Hope springs eternal.' Methos smiled broadly, but there was something brittle about it. 'God knows, there have been worse ages than this. And who's to say things can't get better?' He took another sip, and loosened his tie further. 'Ah, that fire is toasty warm.' 

Sean judged that the time was right. 'So, have you had any further problems with your dislike of the sea?' he asked innocently. 

Methos shivered, ever so slightly. 'No, not really. A couple of nightmares about the tidal wave, but that's to be expected. The last one was nearly six months ago, so I rather think I've come to terms with the memory.' 

'Excellent,' said Sean, meaning it. _Dare the next step._ 'I confess, you left me last time with a marvelous mystery, and I'm dying to hear the solution.' 

'I did?' Methos peered into his glass as if looking for omens. 

'You told me,' Sean reminded him, 'That the tidal wave was caused by a volcanic eruption, on an island near the shores of Greece: an island dedicated to the goddess Atalanta. You must have known I'd guess what its name was.' 

'Hmmm, so I did,' Methos mumbled, not looking up. 

'Oh come, now...' Sean draped a carefully casual arm around his friend's shoulders. 'You can't leave me hanging like that. Tell me what life was like on the fabled isle of Atlantis.' 

'Different.' Methos set down his glass and almost ruthlessly pulled off his tie. 'A very different age of the world.' 

'The Golden Age that legends tell about?' 

'Silver Age... No, more properly, the Bronze Age. People had learned to purify and cast copper, and bronze, by then.' Methos raised his glass and took another serious mouthful. 'Then again, it isn't really so cut-and-dried. Society hadn't changed yet, though there were beginning to be wars...' 

_Society changed? How?_ 'There hadn't been wars before?' 

'Not what we'd call wars,' Methos smiled faintly, looking a trifle softened around the edges. 'Cattle raids, storehouse raids, formal battles that were more like duels... Imagine a 'war' that takes maybe a week of planning, and is over in a day.' 

'Amazing! How do you make a duel out of a battle?' 

'Well, it starts with your tribe and the tribe next door having an argument, usually about hunting or fishing rights.' Methos leaned back against the cushions and stretched out his feet toward the fire. 'Arbitrations by the old women can't settle it, so both tribes decide to war. All the adult males run home and put on their fanciest clothes and jewelry, pick up their spears and clubs, and run out to the place on the border where there's enough room to fight. Of course, the gentlemen in the other tribe come to the same spot. The two armies line up facing each other and shout insults, usually about the other fellows' mothers or sexual inadequacy.' 

'That hasn't changed!' Sean laughed. 

'Ah, but the rest has. Eventually, somebody on one side or the other gets so incensed that he runs down into the no-man's-land between the two armies and demands that somebody come and fight him. Soon enough, somebody from the other side does. Then those two fight, while everybody else stands around cheering. Eventually, one of the two Champions incapacitates or kills the other, and that's the end of the war. The winners go home to hold their victory party. The losers go home to hold their healing ceremony, or else the funeral games. Everybody's emotionally spent, and the original question is settled. That's what they used to call a war, back then.' 

Sean nodded sadly, seeing one facet of how the world had changed, and understanding a bit of his old friend's sorrow. 'If not the Golden Age, then I'd call that the Silver Age, definitely.' 

'You're probably right. Money had come into use -- weights, usually rings, of silver -- and professional merchants with it. The beginnings of modern finance.' Methos shrugged, and took another sip, which emptied his glass again. He peered at it, surprised, then reached for the bottle and refilled it. 'Not that it was a bad idea, mind. Liquid currency made trade easier, more flexible, more extensive, and the little tribal towns were growing into prosperous city-states. Literacy had begun, and societies could afford full-time artisans, artists, even scholars. It was a good time. It was--' 

He choked suddenly, and disguised it with a round of coughing. Sean thoughtfully pounded his back until he stopped, aiding in the diversion, since Methos seemed to need it. 

'But back to Atlantis,' Sean coaxed. 'What else was different then?' 

'So much.' Methos stared into the fire, as if hypnotized by the flames. 'So very much...' 

'Well, I should think so,' Sean prodded. 'After all, it was...what, four thousand years ago?' 

'Just about.' Methos sat up and squared his shoulders, as if preparing for some version of war. 'The eruption came in 1600 BC, or thereabouts. I visited the island over 200 years before then.' 

_He's getting into it,_ Sean noted. _Using the drink for excuse; it doesn't seem to have gotten him actually drunk yet._ 'Why did you happen to go there?' 

'My duty.' Methos kept his eyes fixed on the fire. 'I was Child of the Goddess, Divine Hero of western Sarmatia, and I was summoned by the Goddess of Atalantis.'

'What, exactly, was that goddess?' Sean breathed, making a good guess. 

'Another immortal, much older than I.' 

'Ah! Then the gods of ancient Greek mythology were immortals? All of them?' Sean remembered the legends of Zeus begetting sons on mortal women, which certainly wouldn't fit. 

'No, not all. We were divine heroes, demigods, lesser goddesses... Above us were the High Gods -- actually personified natural forces, just as the anthropologists believe. We worshipped them too, in our fashion.' 

'But... You're implying that the lesser gods, our kind, had some manner of social organization, lived in peace with one another, didn't play the Game!' It was almost -- almost -- too much to believe. 

'Generally, yes.' Methos heaved a deep sigh. 'Oh, there were exceptions, yes, but in those days, such were considered criminals and treated accordingly. Everyone, mortals and immortals, had a very different attitude toward life back then.' 

'Very different,' Sean agreed, guessing at the immensity of the loss -- to all immortals, not only his grieving friend. _No wonder he's trying to anesthetize himself!_ 'But what sort of immortal was this Atalanta?' 

'She had founded the city-state on the island, and guided it to prosperity.' Methos paused to take another long pull of his drink. 'That gave her great influence on the mainland as well. I was only Divine Hero of a few small towns, a small sub-tribe. Why did she send for me?' 

That last sentence, Sean noted, was spoken in Attic Greek. 

Methos abruptly sagged back on the cushions, eyes focused at some great distance, breathing a little harsher. Sean grasped his free hand, offering just enough pressure for support, or comfort. By use of drink or self-hypnosis, Methos had pushed himself into the ancient memory; now it would run its course. 

'I was accompanied by my priestess, Lauina, and a handful of local Ia-Ma-Zone guards. We traveled quickly, spending each night in a different village...' 

* * *

They were guests this night in the house of the local mayor, Lady Salma. She was old and fat, affable and shrewd, hungry for news under the guise of being gossipy, and Lauina went off to gossip with her while dinner was being prepared. Methos took advantage of his free time by hunting up guard-captain Balo and asking to spar with her. 

'Gladly,' the old warrior grinned, taking up her wooden practice-axe, 'And I'll make kindling of your silly blade again.' 

'Possibly not,' Methos smiled, as they strolled into the open courtyard. 'I've thought of some new moves with it.' 

'Invent what you will,' Balo insisted, taking 'ready' position, 'These new sword-things will never replace the good, reliable axe.' 

Methos had his own reservations about that, but knew better than to argue his point with words alone. He picked up the wooden practice-sword, checked its balance, took 'ready' position and nodded once. 

Balo flew at him, her wooden axe whirring in a fierce circle. Methos jabbed his sword into the arc of her swing, enough to deflect it hard, then ducked -- not back but forward -- and lunged upward. Balo leapt out of reach and managed to deflect, but clumsily; she gave him a nod of surprise and appreciation before darting at him again. 

Again Methos deflected, his stick running down her arm. 'You're cut,' he laughed, ducking out of reach himself. 'This is all blade, remember.' 

'The blow was light,' Balo grinned, coming at him again. 

'Oxhide,' he scolded, knowing it was true; until she was too bruised and stiff to move, Balo would never admit that any blow was anything but 'light'. 

He deflected high and made a sweep at her ribs, but the wiry old wolf-bitch wriggled like a snake to evade it and swung low, making him jump. He tried to add a riposte that would catch her squarely on the arm, but she avoided that too. 

Yes, one good thing about sparring with Balo was that she would not slow her pace or pull her blows with him; she made him work as hard as any Ia-Ma-Zone, and they trained from infancy. He had trained only from late childhood, but then, that was over a thousand years ago. He knew he could keep pace with her; all he needed to do -- not that it was easy -- was to see her strokes coming, analyze them and choose the best defense in time. The problem was that Balo knew hundreds of tricks, blocks, blows and feints -- and of course she had the speed and endurance of a woman. She was painfully good for his education. 

He remembered the trick he'd thought of last night, and judged that it was time to try it. Block, crouch and dart forward and lunge-- 

The tip of his wooden sword slammed high into Balo's belly, just where the ribs pulled wide, and stopped her cold. She grimaced and crumpled. 

For an instant Methos stared at her, astonished that the trick had worked. Next second, horrified at the harm he might have done the mortal woman, he dropped his wooden sword and ran to her, rolled her on her side and lifted her head. She was struggling to breathe... 

But she feebly aimed a punch at him anyway. 

'Enough,' he insisted, ducking the blow. 'Fight's over. Breathe.' He massaged her ribs strongly, trying to make them work. Sun, Moon and Earth, what if he killed her?! 'Breathe...' 

Breathe she did, in little puffs at first, then longer pulls. When she was up to panting, and began rubbing the undoubtedly sore spot on her belly, he let go and sat back on his heels to watch her. Balo sat up carefully, still rubbing, and gave him a smile that was half grimace. 'Good trick,' she panted. 'You must...show me...soon as...I get...my wind...' 

'Tomorrow, tomorrow!' He raised his hand as if swearing an oath. 'Remember, we still have to wash for dinner.' 

'Yes...' Balo's grin looked closer to normal. Her breathing slowed and deepened too. 'And...I think I'll make...good use of the...bath attendants.' 

'So will I,' Methos smiled, infinitely relieved. 'Have you noticed that, the further south we go, the more adept the bath-attendants are at massage? I'd love to speak at length with the healers, but I don't suppose we'll have time before we reach Atalantis.' He wondered if he was babbling like a fool. 

But Balo ignored all that, and struggled to get to her feet. Methos quickly offered a hand, and she didn't refuse. 'Good blow,' she grinned again. 'You're a good warrior, for a man.' 

Methos felt himself blush, knowing what high praise that was. 'Well, I've been trained by the best -- and I've had some time to practice.' 

'There is that,' Balo admitted, taking a cautious step. 'You demigods and divine heroes have enough time to mature. Most mortal men don't grow up until they grow old, more's the pity.' 

'At least they make good servants in the meantime. Easy, Balo; you're not ready to run the Olympia races yet.' 

'And I'm not ready for cronehood either,' Balo grumbled, managing to walk without assistance. 

That, Methos considered, was exactly the problem. Surely Balo was old enough to be past menopause, but one couldn't tell with Ia-Ma-Zone'i. Their constant hard exercise dried their menses early, so one could never be sure when they'd stopped permanently. It also kept their bodies rock-hard and their breasts small, so there was no sign of sagging flesh. Constant rubbing with oil kept their skins from thinning to crumpled parchment, and artful use of henna or indigo kept their hair from showing gray. A determined Ia-Ma-Zone could avoid Crone status until she fell down dead, or at least took injuries so severe that there was clearly no recovery -- and Balo was nothing if not determined. 

'Let's to the baths, then,' Methos offered. 'I confess, I could use the skill of a good bath-attendant myself.' 

Balo managed to laugh, but said nothing further. It had become an old joke between them, too old for repeating, that the ministrations of bath-attendants were a trick for luring lecherous males into regular bathing. Methos didn't bother replying that he liked bathing for its own sake, actually liked the feel of being clean. 

Lady Salma's bath-house was old but elegant, with a large hot-pool, wide massage-couches of good stone and thick soft rugs, and a multitude of attendants both male and female. The problem was that Lady Salma herself, and Lauina, were there ahead of them. Balo plodded ahead, drawing the eyes of the other two women to the door, and Lauina spotted Methos before he had a chance to escape. He sighed in resignation and followed Balo, pinning an amiable smile on his face. Lauina was an excellent priestess, but he'd grown distinctly weary of her polite bullying. 

'Ah,' Lady Salma beamed at him, 'Divine Hero Methos, please enter and be welcome at my humble bath-house. I pray you'll find the accommodations suitable.' 

'Most delightful, my excellent hostess,' Methos replied, stripping off his sweat-drenched tunic, leg-cloths and breechclout. A woman attendant took them, wrinkling her nose ever so slightly, while another hastened to remove his sandals. He privately hoped that, after washing his garments, the servants would hang them to dry indoors over braziers. The night air had become increasingly wet of late, and he disliked putting on damp clothes in the morning. 

'Nothing would suit me better than to join you,' he added, suppressing his smile at the women's momentary discomfiture. Men normally did not bathe with women of anywhere near the same social rank, unless they were consorts, but of course a demigod or divine hero could make an exception. He stepped into the pool, reveling in the lovely heat of the water, noting that Lady Salma ran her eyes up and down his bared body with frank appreciation. 

Balo, ignoring all this, stripped off her clothes and plodded into the water like an ox going to pasture. Either she knew nothing of social niceties or perversely enjoyed ignoring them. The other women gasped as they saw the fresh bruise on her belly, and Methos couldn't help wincing himself as he finally got a good look at it. 

'My dear,' Lady Salma gushed, 'What caused that?' 

'Weapons practice with the Hero,' Lauina sniffed, politely expressing her opinion of such activities. 

'He came up with a good move,' Balo explained, taking the sponge a male attendant held out to her. 

Methos groaned inwardly, and sank deeper in the water. 

'It's the custom in Sarmatia,' Lauina went on, with a formality that promised Methos an achingly polite -- and long -- lecture later, 'that both males and females, including the divine ones, study weapons-craft equally.' 

'Remarkable,' said the mayor, arching her eyebrows. 

Methos could guess what she didn't say: that the women must be either wretchedly poor warriors, or fools to teach men as much war-craft as themselves. He sighed, and worked the sponge vigorously over his face and neck, choosing his next words with care. 

'Alas, my hostess, it cannot be helped.' _Smile, smile charmingly._ 'My worshippers live in small villages, and in case of a cattle-raid every available hand must turn out, and quickly -- even unto children as young as ten winters.' He turned smoothly toward the bath attendant who held the tray of winecups and the pitcher. 'Might I sample your doubtless excellent vintage?' 

'Certainly,' Lady Salma beamed reaching out a plump hand for her own cup. 

After an instant, Lauina imitated her. So did Balo, who never missed a chance for a good drink. Methos dutifully poured wine for all of them and handed out the cups, taking his own last. Again, he could guess the mayor's thought: 'What a civilized, well-mannered man -- but of course, being a demigod, he must have lived long enough to learn'. 

Methos realized he was getting tired of that attitude; he'd seen so irritatingly much of it since coming down into the farming-lands, civilized country. He enjoyed the benefits of progress -- trade, prosperity, leisure, literacy and scholarship, and of course well-made baths with reliable hot water -- as much as anyone, and in truth he enjoyed his duty of teaching the simple Sarmatians such things, but the growing division they created between women and men annoyed him. He felt obliged to prove to every woman he met that a man could be just as educated, refined, thoughtful and hard-working -- in short, as mature -- as women. 

The only problem with that was that he was a Divine Hero -- immortal, centuries old -- therefore the exception to the general rule. Of course women could understand, even expect, such maturity from him. He wasn't changing their perspective at all. 

He couldn't help trying, all the same. 'But pray tell me, my excellent hostess, how fares the farming in your land? What variety of crops can be raised here?' 

Oh, that was the right question to ask; Lady Salma beamed widely, and swept into shameless boasting about her district's extensive fields of wheat, oats, barley, grapes and other fruits, assorted vegetables, cattle and pigs and sheep, difficulties of crop-rotation and problems of incompatible plants, until Balo was discreetly yawning and even Lauina looked a trifle lost. Methos smiled to himself, and deliberately outpaced his priestess a little further. 

'My good lady,' he said eagerly, 'Have you considered actively planting pasture-grass? Consider that if one can move pasturage, one might include livestock in the rotation process -- and it's well known that their manure can improve soil for grain-crops.' 

'Seriously?' Lady Salma perked up, while the other two women gave up and addressed themselves to their winecups. 'How on Earth would one collect seed for such planting?' 

'Why, the same way one collects it for other crops; wait until ripening, harvest the seed-heads, thresh very lightly so as not to crush the seeds, and winnow with a finely-woven basket.' 

'But if we wait until ripening, the stalks are reduced to nothing but straw. What shall we do for hay, to supply the livestock during the barren season?' 

'Harvest twice,' said Methos, noting with amusement that Lauina was beginning to look glassy-eyed. 'Cut the first time when the seed-heads have barely formed, and dry the grasses to make hay -- but cut high enough so as to leave the plant living. It will grow again, and form another seed-head. Let this one ripen completely, and collect the seeds. The straw, of course, can be put to its customary uses.' 

'Marvelous!' The mayor clapped her hands in delight, sending waves through the water. 'By the Mother, we could do it! Four-part rotation: hay-field, pasture, grain, then vegetables... Yes! That would cover everything but the fruit-crops -- and even those can be under-planted with compatible herbs. Yes, I'll try it! Ah, thank you immensely, Child of the Goddess!' 

'It's but my duty,' Methos said, ever-so-politely modest. 

From her corner of the bathing-pool, Balo snickered knowingly. 

* * *

Methos paused to refill his glass again. His hands were steady, Sean noticed, but his gestures were slow. 

'Red as blood,' he murmured, staring at the ruby liquid. 'The wine at Lady Salma's table was red as blood, and just about as salty.' He shivered. 'As soon as we'd reclined on the couches, her consort came in and stretched out beside her. The man was wizened and balding and querulous, and could barely wait for the opening prayer to finish before he started grumbling about needing a new mantle, and how poorly the men's ball team was doing, and how ungrateful the children were. He cut into every conversation with his griping, and Salma only rolled her eyes apologetically. Lauina came up with the solution; we all talked about finances, until the old man grew bored enough to drink himself to sleep. After that we discussed increased trade -- particularly with Sarmatia -- but quietly enough not to waken him. He was an embarrassment, like an old pet dog grown cranky and incontinent with age, but whose owner still indulges him in memory of what he was. At one point Salma quietly stated that she wished her oldest son was present, and I understood her exactly.' 

'Er, I don't,' Sean admitted. 

'Her oldest son would have been in his forties, old enough to be...mature. He could have talked the old man into leaving, heading for bed, or otherwise made him less embarrassing.' 

Methos sighed, and took a long thoughtful drink. 

'Am I understanding this properly?' Sean could hardly believe it. 'The mayor was the lady, the man was her consort, the soldiers were women... It was a matriarchal society?' 

'What else could it be?' Methos shrugged. 'Paternity wasn't known, the only parent was the mother, so all inheritance and ancestor-worship and family authority followed the female line.' 

'Dear Lord,' Sean marveled, thinking of a disturbing new book by a pair of anthropologists named Vaertung. 'The Dominant Sex...' 

'Yes.' Methos carefully set down his glass. 'The women there behaved rather as men do now, and vice-versa.'

''Rather'? Not 'precisely'? What were the men's characters like, living that way?' Sean wondered, knowing that it had to make a difference. 'Were they...like women here, before the War?' 

'Worse, if anything.' Methos glowered into the fire. 'Vain, self-absorbed, concerned with mate-chasing and petty social infighting, yes, but also commonly dirty, lazy, childish...' He pulled a hard breath. 'I had to wonder, afterwards, if they weren't raised too gently -- indulged too much, allowed to avoid education or responsibility. In those days, nobody really disciplined children: rather like the Eskimos, who never spank their children and rarely scold them. I think...' His hands unconsciously traced patterns in the air. 'Beginning, as we all did, with the strenuous life of Stone Age hunters... Such people don't need to discipline children, because the environment does it for them. That's how the Sarmatians were, and the Eskimos still are. As civilization progressed, life became much easier and safer; people grew up protected from the environment, able to avoid the consequences of their actions for a good long time. Nobody thought to change the child-raising methods accordingly, use human discipline to replace Nature's. I think that's what made the difference. ...Not that the children minded, of course.' 

'Of course not,' Sean smiled. 'But then, why didn't the girl-children grow up just as self-indulgent?' 

'They were aware that much was expected of them. Little punishment for failure, but plenty of rewards for achievement. All carrot and no stick. It worked for the females, but the carrot offered to the boy-children wasn't as large, as compelling.' Methos let his eyes wander to the ceiling. 'I've been thinking about that, all this past year, trying to see just where our error was -- and that's all I've managed to find.' 

'It's hard to conceive,' Sean admitted. 'Indulged children and womanish men-- childish, rather. It sounds like a formula for disaster.' 

'Yet that society lasted for millennia.' Methos turned an ironic look on him. 'Of course, there were all those marvelously competent women to run it. And the men certainly weren't treated badly. It was a life of...all carrot and no stick...no worse cruelty than scolding or shouting, no sorrows but natural disasters -- and of course occasional thieving, and the hard training of the Ia-Ma-Zone'i.' 

'Heaven for children,' Sean murmured, recalling a quote from that troublesome book. 

'And very good for women, and not bad for men...' Methos abruptly grimaced and bowed his head. 'It was a good world!' he whispered fiercely, as if fighting back tears. 

Sean gently squeezed his friend's shoulders, and waited for the rest of it. 

Methos reached for his glass and took another mouthful. 'So we continued southward,' he resumed, 'Through the Attic city-states, and finally took ship for Atalantis...' 

* * *

Aboard the _Wavedancer_ were the owner, Caldita, and her daughter whom she was instructing in the family business. Lauina spent much time gossiping with them, leaving Methos to Balo's care and his own devices. Not only the rowers but the steersman, Methos was delighted to see, were men. The rowers were young fellows, rather handsome generally, very likely to catch the eyes of well-off women who might take them on as consorts; the steersman was much older, a dried-up old bachelor with an unlovely face, who had probably never had any decent prospects but had buried his sorrows in work -- and he was truly quite competent. Caldita often spoke kindly to him, even flirted mildly, though clearly both of them knew she wasn't serious. The man could have done much worse, Methos judged; he had work he loved, a secure position for life, and probably the favor of women on shore in exchange for his tales of the sea. 

It was a pity the journey was so short -- less than a day, even against the wind; Methos would have loved to talk with the steersman, if not the rowers. As it was, they knew him for a Divine Hero by his regalia -- not to mention Lauina's fussing, and the presence of the Ia-Ma-Zone'i -- and were too subdued in his presence, and Caldita's, for much conversation. 

Soon enough the sharp cone of Atalantis' central mountain poked above the horizon, and the number of fishing-boats on the water increased. Methos noted the women, and a decent number of men, hauling nets full of their silvery catches out of the deep-blue water, and recalled what he'd heard about the wealth of the island. The fishing was obviously very good, and the seaweed was said to grow very thickly, and the soil on land was known to be incredibly rich -- two harvests a year, it was said, and sometimes even a third. He'd wait to see for himself if another tale was true: that a vein of almost-pure copper ran down the side of the central mountain, pointing like a finger to the peak. 

Ah, and here came a trade-ship from the east -- High Gods, she looked to be Egyptian! And was that a Minoan ship beyond her, departing eastward, low in the water with the weight of her cargo? How many ships each day came to harbor at Atalantis? Clearly, trade flourished here. 

That brought up, again, the question of why Atalanta had sent for him, the simple divine hero of a poor herding-and-hunting people. What could she want from him that she could not find closer to home? 

Now the shore-lands came into view -- and Great Mother, but they had no walls! The land sloped smoothly to golden beaches, fields of already-tall grain above them and thick vineyards beyond that, and never a wall to keep pirates away. Oh, but wait: there, that sleek ship sliding through the shallow waters along the shore -- that had to be a patrol-cutter; see the great eyes painted on her prow, and the unmistakable curve of a ramming-beak below. It would take, he calculated, at least three such ships to patrol reliably the entire perimeter of the island; what wealth of wood and metal did Atalantis possess that it could dedicate three ships to nothing but patrol duty? 

The steersman eyed the approaching land, bent to his rudder-pole and altered course. Now the _Wavedancer_ swung toward a small city, a most colorful city -- its houses painted white, yellow, blue, green and Earth-red -- all of baked brick or even stone, not a wooden hut to be seen. And was that a wide gap between the houses? Yes, it was: the entrance to a harbor, flanked by two stone towers with a boom suspended between them. Judging from the green stain on the chains, that boom hadn't been lowered to block the harbor-entrance in years, possibly decades. Another ship was ahead of them, and the steersman shouted orders that made the rowers halt; the _Wavedancer_ slowed to the pace of the low waves, sliding into place behind the first ship, giving Methos plenty of time to examine the harbor's entry. 

Two statues of painted stone, twice man-height, stood near the feet of the towers to observe the passing ships. One of them was the sea-goddess, called Amphitrite here, rearing upright on her fish-tail, wearing a necklace of white stones that passably resembled giant pearls. The other -- Methos looked sharply to be sure he wasn't mistaken -- was of a man: middle-aged to judge by his full beard and broad body, holding a three-pronged fish-spear in one hand, wearing a circlet of real pearl-shells and a calmly intelligent expression. _Of course,_ Methos realized, with a smile. _Where men work outside the home, they need a god to bless their labors._ Atalantis, he guessed, must host a lot of working males to justify a consort's statue as big as the goddess'. He looked again at the Amphitrite statue, wondering if her face had been modeled after Atalanta's, but saw that it was bland and generalized: not a portrait. The man's statue was much the same: an idealization, not a representation of any specific immortal. 

He noticed that the statues rose out of what seemed to be mounds of clamshells, and wondered about that until he saw, as the _Wavedancer_ pulled between the towers, the rowers pick up shells of their own and toss them toward the statues as offerings. He wondered, smiling to himself, if the gatekeepers of the harbor had to dredge out the passage every year to clear it of clamshells. 

Now they were passing through the gateway -- lined with sea-walls of heavy stone blocks -- and into the harbor beyond. Methos caught his breath as he looked straight ahead and saw another circle of land curving away, with yet another sea-gate in it -- and the hint of yet a third circle beyond that, and the mountain in the center. He could scarcely believe that the natural forces of Earth had created something this elaborate, this perfect. 

* * *

'...but of course that perfection was a trap.' Methos leaned back into the cushions and chewed briefly at his lip. 'Anything too perfect usually is.' 

Sean slid his hands up to Methos' shoulders and rubbed them gently. 'How could anyone know, back then, about volcanoes and volcanic cones?' he said. 'Geology is a very recent science.' 

'With our long lifespans we should have seen, should have known...' Methos sighed and leaned into that comforting touch. 'We were supposed to guide and protect our people. Atalanta was a good thousand years older than I; she must have seen volcanoes before, seen them erupt, known what they could do...' He frowned. 'Then again, earthquakes were still rare -- and volcanoes likewise. The heavy activity didn't start for another few centuries. ...No, I suppose I can't blame her.' 

Sean massaged steadily, feeling the muscles slowly relax under his hands. 'You saw more equality for men on Atlantis? Rowers, fishermen...' 

'Not quite the same as in Sarmatia.' Methos stretched, then relaxed. 'At home, the tasks were few and necessary, and there was no real division of labor; everybody herded, hunted, gathered, fished, did the household crafts... In the sea-lands there was much more varied work, and men generally did the unskilled labor while the women were the managers, though a few men were artisans...' He took a thoughtful sip of the cherry liqueur, still not visibly reacting to its bite. 'It was much the same in the military; men were foot-soldiers or non-coms at best, women -- like Balo -- were the officers.' 

'But you said there were no wars, as such.' 

'No,' Methos smiled, 'but chasing off livestock-thieves or storehouse-thieves or the occasional pirate, and getting public awards afterward, could make a young fellow look awfully good to the ladies -- good enough that a lady might take a personable lad into her household. Young men from wealthier families went into sports, or the arts, for much the same reason.' 

'Marriage-market!' Sean shook his head in wonder. 'A bit different from young women today.' 

'Very different industries reign today.' Methos shrugged. 'For one thing, in those days literacy was very new and very rare. In some places it was a sacred secret, known only to the immortals and their priesthoods. In others, wealthier merchants could learn it. That put severe limitations on clerical employment. There were very few secretaries, let alone any with hopes of seducing the boss.' 

'The arts, though... Singers, dancers, actors -- that hasn't changed.' 

'No.' Methos smiled fondly toward some unseen distance. 'It was and still is a very good marriage-market. Or consort-market, as it was then.' 

'How many...consorts could a woman have?' Sean asked, trying to understand the psychology of the social patterns. 

'As many as she could support. When she tired of taking a man to her bed, she'd usually keep him on as a household servant. I believe it's called 'job security' nowadays.' 

'The households...' Sean remembered a pattern, now fading, from earlier centuries, '...must have been quite large.' 

'In some cases, enormous.' Methos let his eyes wander back to the fire. 'Atalanta's household numbered close to a hundred -- but of course, that was the main temple-complex...' 

* * *

By the time the _Wavedancer_ passed through the third gate, into the third ring-shaped harbor, the sun was less than two handspans from the horizon. Here the water was narrow, and navigating between the other ships took time. The _Wavedancer,_ Methos noted, was the only sea-going ship allowed this close to the central mountain-island; all the rest were ferries. From the way Lauina had handled the gatekeepers at every passage, Methos guessed that only the ship's religious business had allowed them this far. He fixed his eyes on the stone docks ahead, and beyond that the stone-built city that rose from the water to the peak. 

There was no mistaking the house of Atalanta; it was the highest building on the island, built partly into the mountain just below the peak. It was made entirely of stone, painted white with green ornamentation, walled and rambling. The temple stood in the center, dominated by the tall great-hall, with the goddess' apartments to one side and the service-rooms to the other. The smaller houses, attached with columned and covered walkways, were probably the servants' quarters. Still smaller buildings, detached from the main complex, peeped through the gardens and orchard visible from this side -- and doubtless there were more beyond where the wall curved away around the mountain. Methos guessed that there were more orchards, and vineyards and fields, out of sight on the temple grounds; he wondered how much of the temple's produce was used to maintain the household, how much was stored against emergencies, and how much was traded. Very wealthy indeed was Atalanta. 

Finally, finally, the _Wavedancer_ drew up at the stone dock. There was a brief argument between Lauina and Balo about proper parade order, while the rowers secured the ship and set out the gangplank, which Methos solved simply by heading for the gangplank himself, letting the others follow however they would. Lauina managed to scramble into line ahead of him when they stepped out onto the dock, and he didn't cavil about it; the dock and streets were filled with crowds, and it was easier to let his fussy little priestess clear the way for him with blares of her sheep's-horn trumpet than to push through that mob himself. 

Up the main road they went, Lauina in the lead -- blowing furiously, then Methos sauntering, then the Ia-Ma-Zone guard in parade formation, finally the half-dozen servants with the baggage. The local crowds parted to watch, many of them gawking as if they'd never seen a Divine Hero before. Methos wondered if Atalanta normally entertained only other goddesses, or if indeed any other immortals had visited within mortal memory. 

That brought him back to his original question; what on Earth could Atalanta want with him? 

Methos shoved the useless worry aside and concentrated on observing the city around him. It was, he noted, extraordinarily clean; the streets were all paved with smooth stones, small gutters -- mostly covered -- beside the houses carried away liquid wastes, and sweepers were busy in the roads. He saw few animals in the streets -- mostly dogs -- but good numbers of children, all healthy, all tended by watchful menservants or older daughters. There were several vendors with pushcarts, but most trade was conducted at a large market-square with an open pavilion of stone and several booths and tents; from it wafted smells of various foods, including fish and meats, but no sounds of animals. Apparently the slaughtering and butchering were done in some district nearby. There was a surprising number of public fountains, and as his party climbed the streets toward the mountain's peak Methos noticed that the water in the fountains began to steam and smell faintly of sulfur. He remembered the precious hot spring in the Sacred Hills of Sarmatia, and felt comforted by that smell; it promised abundant hot water, at least. The adults were also healthy and clean, and wore a surprising amount of clothing; he saw no one so poor as to go naked, and no one with any sign of sickness. The only injuries he saw were minor: a grumpy child with a bound ankle, a man with a well-bandaged arm, a very old woman leaning on a staff. Sky and Earth, but Atalanta had done well with her charge! 

At last they came to the gate in the temple's wall, which was wide and stood open, flanked by two pairs of Ia-Ma-Zone guards who grinned at Balo in recognition. Lauina, red-faced and panting, gratefully tucked her trumpet back in her pouch and made her formal -- if somewhat breathless -- announcement. The gate-guards simply stood back and waved her forward, not sending anyone with her. Lauina pouted over that, as they marched up the flat-paved roadway between two lovely formal gardens, but as they approached the main door of the temple the reason for the guards' lack of concern soon appeared. The great bronze-sheathed wooden doors were guarded by two more Ia-Ma-Zone'i, who carefully did not look at the little priestess, and an old man in the long tunic and mantle of a butler, who did. The butler drew himself up -- not accidentally displaying the device of a fish and a winged foot embroidered on his tunic -- and waited with a lofty expression while Lauina marched toward him, waving her clay seal like an amulet of protection. Methos smiled to himself as he watched Lauina and the butler struggle to outdo each other in proper formalities, concluding that for once his chief priestess had met her match. At length, with a mantle-flapping elaborate gesture, the butler pushed open the doors and led them into the great-hall. 

The hall contained a surprising number of support-columns, and a glance upward showed Methos that their purpose was to hold up a roof of solid stone: an impressive achievement, and he itched to know how it had been done. Between the columns scurrying servants were already setting out tables and couches for dinner, almost obscuring the scene ahead. Methos could make out a woman sitting on an elaborate stone chair on a raised stone platform, almost surrounded by a chattering gaggle of priestesses, thoughtfully scratching letters into the surface of a waxed board with a bronze stylus. 

He was halfway down the central aisle when the warning aura of another immortal reached him, and he knew who the woman was. 

The butler stopped ten paces from the clutch of priestesses, and announced Methos in a voice that rattled off the back wall. The priestesses turned to look at him and make the proper salute to a visiting divine hero, displaying their fish-and-foot pendants, and the goddess raised her eyes to his. 

Atalanta looked quite young, like a maiden of no more than 20, but her aura radiated the power of many centuries of life. She had the dark hair and eyes of the sea-lands peoples, but the rangy body and small breasts of a long-distance runner -- and Methos made a good guess as to the source of that winged-foot emblem. He imagined her, spear in hand, running down deer and wild goat in the forested hills even as he made his formal greeting. Atalanta smiled widely, handed her tablet and stylus to the nearest priestess, and stood to meet him. 

'Divine Hero Methos of Sarmatia,' she said, with minimal formalities, 'I'm delighted to meet you at last. Please accept the hospitality of my house.' She clapped her hands in signal, and another priestess hurried forward. 'Show my guests to their rooms, then to the bath-house,' she ordered. 'The Divine Hero shall dine at my couch this evening.' 

That was, Methos considered as he followed the eagerly dutiful priestess, quite an honor for a complete newcomer. To eat at her table he would have expected, but at her couch? He remembered that diners on the same couch were close enough to exchange comments without being overheard. This strongly suggested fear and secrecy, and that was worrisome. 

The room to which the priestess led him was both opulent and secure. The door was massive and carried a heavy bar; only two windows pierced the wall, both of them high and narrow and closed with sturdy bronze hanging screens that latched on the inside. The wall near the wide bed was decorated suggestively with spears, a shield, a bow and filled quiver. The furniture, including the clothes-chest, was massive enough to stop axe-blows. Rolled pallets along the wall near the door suggested that guards might sleep there. It was a small fortress against anything from robber-gangs to sneaking assassins, and Methos wondered why Atalanta had sent him here. He suspected that this room wasn't usually given to guests, even visiting immortals. He waited until the servants unpacked his luggage into the clothes-chest, and departed, before he followed the priestess to the bath-house -- and he took care to bring his sword with him. 

Balo was there before him, with no one but a single male bath attendant dutifully scrubbing her back. The priestess stopped, worried at the delicate problem of protocol, but Methos calmly stripped off his clothes and waded into the bath. Balo snickered as she saw him bring the cloak-wrapped bundle that contained his sword, and glanced to a similar bundle behind her -- which doubtless contained her axe. The priestess shrugged, stripped out of her own gown, took up the sponge and slid into the water beside Methos. Balo flicked a glance at the attendants, then grinned at Methos; of course the bath attendants would gossip merrily about anything they heard, but there were ways around that problem. 

'What room did they give you?' Methos asked innocently, grateful to note that the bruise on Balo's upper belly had faded to a faint yellow stain. 

'A nice little barn for the six of us,' she smiled. 'Good beds, in truth, and large clothes-presses, and our own table and benches. Fifth door on the right, first left then second right after the eastern door from the temple.' 

Methos noted that the priestess did not wince on hearing Balo give accurate directions. 'I got a lovely big room to myself, second door left, same corridor,' he replied. 

'And they put Lauina in the room two doors west of you,' Balo finished. 'One assumes it's comfortable.' 

'I've seen nothing here that isn't,' Methos commented. It never hurt to praise one's host in a servant's hearing. 'I'm delighted with the accommodations: small high windows with heavy screens, and the walls decorated with a fine display of arms -- quite fitting for a Divine Hero, though I confess I haven't battled any great villains lately.' 

Balo nodded, catching his meaning. 'Perhaps the goddess has one in mind for you,' she guessed. 

'That would make sense,' Methos agreed. 'But why send for a simple fellow from a far-off backwater? Surely there are heroes and demigods closer than Sarmatia whom she could have called upon.' 

Balo shrugged. 'Perhaps they're otherwise engaged, or perhaps...' Her smile changed to a leer. 'She's known them all, and tires of them, and desires to sample fresh meat.' 

The priestess at Methos' back almost dropped her sponge, smothering an explosive laugh. 

Methos laughed for her, feeling a blush heat his cheeks. 'She need not have sent all the way to Sarmatia for that!' 

'Ah, but perhaps tales of your beauty have reached her,' Balo grinned. 

'I'm hardly so beautiful as that, either.' Methos felt his blush spreading. 

That was when Lauina joined them, wearing a frown and looking preoccupied. The other two greeted her with more politeness than enthusiasm. She plodded into the pool with scarcely a glance at Balo, and turned her attention to Methos. 

'You must be careful of your manners here, Divine One,' she said without preamble. 'This goddess keeps an elaborate court, and it would not do to appear as a country bumpkin before her.' 

Methos sighed, guessing what was to come next: a lecture on etiquette and table manners, which he'd heard all too often before. He understood, but didn't like, the woman's eternal concern with his Proper State. Did she really expect him to be on public display all the time? Couldn't mortals leave their divinities in peace? He leaned back against the edge of the pool, concentrated on the delightful ministrations of the bath-attendant, and let the words flow past him. 

Lauina kept on with her litany through the bathing, the drying, the massaging afterward, and the dressing in fine guest-robes afterward, not ceasing until they were back in the corridor heading for the Great Hall and supper. At least she didn't comment on his wearing his belt and sword. 

Dinner was, as Lauina had warned, an elaborate affair. Atalanta herself wore a magnificent multi-pleated gown of fine-spun sea-blue linen, and three necklaces of pearls. At least fifty priestesses and other mortals reclined on the couches, and -- judging by the number of servants running in and out with platters and pitchers -- nearly as large a number worked out of sight, serving the diners. Balo and her guards had their own table, far down the row, well out of earshot of anything but a shout. Lauina was placed almost as far away. Course after course was served, accompanied by musicians and singers, and the wine was cut less than half with water. Methos nibbled lightly at each dish, not knowing how many more were to come and unwilling to stuff himself; that took considerable restraint, given the exquisite food. 

At length, during a particularly engrossing song about a shipwreck, Atalanta leaned close and murmured in his ear, 'I'll come to your chamber an hour after we retire. Please have no one else there.' 

Methos nodded once, wondering if Balo had been right or if there was some deeper game in play here. 

'You need not fear me,' she added quietly, resting a hand on his wrist. 'I do truly need your help.' 

'You shall have it,' he whispered back, amazed that she would have tried so hard to reassure him. What manner of danger could he have expected, or did she expect, in her own temple? 

Then a servant approached with a wine-pitcher, and Atalanta moved away from him to hold out her cup. 

Methos picked further at his food, impatient for the excellent meal to end. 

It did end, eventually, with a delicious sweet-cake and entertainment by a troop of acrobatic dancers. Atalanta rose from her couch, bade the guests farewell and strode toward the nearest door. The other guests began, slowly, often groaning with the effort, to pull themselves off their couches and make their exits. Methos noted that a priestess engaged Lauina's attention, and took the opportunity to slip away from her, down the row to where Balo and her troop were preparing to leave. A single twitch of a finger caught her attention and drew her close. 

'Keep an eye on the corridor,' he said. 'The goddess will visit me, but her business is definitely business, and I wouldn't want anything to...delay her.' 

Balo only nodded, pursing her lips thoughtfully, and went back to her guards. Methos almost made it out of the great-hall alone before a servant came hurrying up with a lamp to guide him to his room. 

In his absence, he saw, the chamber had been provided with no less than three lamps -- which the servant lit for him -- a cup and pitcher of wine and a platter of small foods, in case he should need any after that dinner. His clothes had been washed, even dried thoroughly -- over a brazier, no doubt -- and lay neatly folded atop the clothes-press. The covers of his bed had been turned down, and someone had provided a scroll for him to read while he waited. Methos took up the scroll even as the priestess departed, left the door unbarred, took off no more than his sandals and sat down on the bed to read. 

The scroll contained a map of the known world, artfully colored to show the different lands, and annotated with descriptions of the various city-states and tribal territories. The script was Minoan, Atalanta be praised, not those wretched Sumerian bird-scratches, and he could read it easily. He noticed that the descriptions carefully mentioned who was divine hero or goddess of each territory, and eagerly studied their names and attributes. A few of the men, he noticed, were listed as Demigods, meaning that they had some power beyond simple immortality; Djanos of western Thessaly was said to have predictive power, and Tarrhon of Etruria could sense emotions. Warily, Methos searched out the entry for Sarmatia. 

To his disappointment, the entry was brief; the Sarmatians were described accurately enough as simple hunting and herding folk, with some praise given to their hunting skills and sturdy little horses. He was mentioned, yes, but only as Methos the Teacher -- who sometimes led hunts or forays against robbers. There was nothing in the account that would draw the attention of such as Atalanta. He rolled up the scroll, pondering the same nagging question; what could the goddess want with an obscure divine hero of a simple and far-off people? Was it his very obscurity that she valued? And what danger did she fear? 

He was still pondering that when he heard a soft scratching at the door, and he kept a hand on his sword-grip as he rose to let in his visitor. Yes, it was Atalanta -- hidden in a long light cloak and barefoot to make no sound on the floor. The door, he noted as he closed and barred it, had its hinge-post oiled in its sockets and was almost silent as it moved. 

'How may I aid you, Goddess?' he asked, very quietly. 

Atalanta pulled off her cloak, went to the pitcher and poured the cup full. 'Have you read the scroll I left for you?' she asked, seating herself on the bed's foot. 

'I have.' He smiled. 'I found it most interesting, though there was little of myself in it.' 

Atalanta took a sip of the wine, then handed the cup to him. In the yellow lamplight she looked like a young girl worried over her lessons. 'Did you note that nothing is written about the lands beyond your borders?' she asked. 

'Not much is there,' he said, sitting beside her, a polite two handspans away. 'The forest thins out to rolling plains of grass, bitterly cold in winter, poorly watered in summer. A few scattered tribes live there, hunters, who sometimes raid our herds when the game grows thin. Their tongue is similar to ours, enough that we can shout threats and curses at each other. Other than that, we have no contact with them.' 

'But the tongue is similar.' Atalanta laced her fingers together in her lap. 'If you made effort, could you go among them, live among them long enough to learn their ways -- and disguise yourself convincingly as one of them?' 

Methos felt his jaw drop, and hastily pulled it up. 'I could, I think. I have some skill at dissembling...' 

'So I've heard,' Atalanta smiled. 'You are foremost actor at the year-plays, Lauina tells me.' 

Methos kept his mouth shut and his eyebrows from climbing, but was startled to realize that under her fussy punctilious surface Lauina was a keen observer -- and reporter. 'Why... For what purpose should I disguise myself as a poor outland hunter?' 

'So that you may proceed to the mountainous country east and then south of the Euxine Sea, and spy out the land there, with none knowing that you are Sarmatian or have any connection with the civilized lands.' Atalanta smiled at his expression, but her eyes had a grim look. 'I have heard reports that a great evil is brewing there, and must know more.' 

'East of the Euxine?' Methos had never been there, nor heard anything of those lands. He dared to ask, 'How did you learn of this?' 

'By merchants from Truia,' she replied calmly. 'They got it from herding folk of the Anatolian highlands, who got it from huntsmen further east. The goddess of Truia is much disturbed by these reports, and sent messengers to me -- and others -- asking what might be done.' 

'And I -- as spy, supposedly from the hunting-folk -- was the solution?' That led to another question. 'Why, then, was I summoned here and not to Truia?' _Which would have been a far shorter journey._

'To keep our plottings as far as possible from this evil.' Atalanta frowned. 'It is of human doing -- of mortals only, let us hope -- and if word can travel west to Truia, it might return east as easily.' 

Methos nodded, understanding that. 'I should be grateful then,' he smiled, 'That I was not called as far as Sicilia. Now tell me about this evil that requires such plotting.' 

Atalanta pressed her fingers together, almost wringing them. 'This is hard to explain,' she said. 'The reports say that a city-state grows there -- with no goddess, demigod, divine hero or queen, but ruled by a man.' 

Methos' eyebrows rose. 'A...male queen?' He had to construct an awkward word for it. 'Are you certain this isn't a male immortal?' 

'We can't be sure.' Atalanta gave him a look that suggested much. 'He claims not to be such, but to speak for one -- a demigod more powerful than any goddess, but who is never seen and may well not exist. We don't know.' 

Methos saw a pattern emerging, and didn't like it. 'Has no other immortal gone to see if this incredibly powerful demigod truly exists?' 

'One.' Atalanta sighed. 'A woman named Potnia, who had no lands of her own and was thus free to travel. She...didn't return.' 

'I see.' _And of course a minor divine hero can be spared for the next attempt._ 'Have you any idea what became of her?' 

'I have the report of a survivor.' Atalanta stood and took a step toward the door. 'Indeed, I have the survivor himself, waiting just outside the door, if you're willing to hear him.' 

_'Survivor'?_ 'Of course I am.' Methos waited, thoughts racing, while Atalanta quietly let the man in and barred the door behind him. 

The mysterious survivor was an older mortal, unlovely of face and body, clearly no one's consort, in the dress of a servant. He had a haunted look, and his callused hand trembled slightly. He was also marked with scars of recent wounds, and his left arm was gone at the elbow -- likewise a recent injury. Atalanta herself fetched a chair for him, bade him sit, and set the winecup in his hand. He drank eagerly, and clutched the cup as if afraid that someone would snatch it from him. 

'Netin,' Atalanta asked him gently, 'Pray tell your tale to this one.' 

The man glanced at Methos, shivered, but steadied himself and complied. 'I was groom to Potnia,' he began. 'I drove a baggage-cart when we traveled east out of Truia. A moon and a half we went, a train of twenty, trading for food, then hunting when the land grew empty.' 

'How many were guards?' Methos cut in. 

'More than half. Two Ia-Ma-Zone'i and twelve spearmen.' Plainly the man had told this tale many times, and been questioned repeatedly on the details. 'The goddess brought three priestesses, myself and another groom.' The man shook himself, and went on. 'For the last fortnight we saw no one, but there were signs that people had once lived there and herded cattle. An hour before dawn, on the forty-sixth day, our camp was attacked.' 

_An hour before dawn?_ Methos puzzled. _What light did they have?_ 'Was the moon shining then?' 

'No, milord. It was dark of the moon.' 

_They must have known the ground very well, probably crept up while the camp was set and waited all night._ Methos knew of dedicated hunters who could stalk game this way, but he'd never heard of robbers doing the same. 'How many were there?' 

The man shuddered. 'More than fifty, I swear! Many more. All men. They had horses big enough to ride upon, like the Kentauri. They killed the watchman with arrows, then rode in among us, killing as they went.' 

Methos flinched, feeling Atalanta's eyes on him. 'Killing? Not capturing for slaves?' The sheer waste was appalling. 

'They killed.' Netin drained the winecup. Atalanta silently refilled it. 'Killed the men, all the men, even those who surrendered. I saw that, so I fought. They stabbed me with spears until I fell, then left me to attack others. I crawled under a fallen tent, and they forgot me. I saw...' He shuddered again. 'They killed all the men and the Ia-Ma-Zone'i, and the oldest priestess. The others, and the goddess, they dragged away and...' He waved his stump vaguely, eyes defocused, as if he still didn't quite know how to describe this. 'They forced the women to pleasure them. Held them down and mounted them like dogs. All of them, all... One of the priestesses was dead when they finished. The other, and the goddess, they bound and put in a cart and carried away.' 

Methos turned to look at Atalanta, seeing no sign on her face that this story was untrue. He had trouble wrapping his mind around the concept. 

Netin took another long drink. 'When they were gone, I crawled down to a stream to wash my wounds. I took what I could carry, and walked back westward. The first people I met were Kentauri hunters. They took me to their healer, but the wound in my arm festered...' He looked at the stump of his arm, then away. 'They were frightened by my story and took me further west, to some herdsmen who brought me to a temple. The priestess there sent me to Truia. From thence, I came here.' 

Methos rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of this. _The robbers were all men. They killed all the men and half the women, forced mating upon the survivors, then carried them off. Why? Why any of this?_ 'What did these men look like?' 

Netin took another fast drink. 'Varied of body,' he said. 'Some tall, some short, light colored hair and dark, light eyes and dark. But all were bearded and dirty, and stank, and all wore leggings and breastplates of boiled-leather armor -- which also stank. They were very fierce, very dirty, and very cruel.' 

'Indeed...' The worst excesses of the robbers from the plains were no comparison with this; these people matched no pattern that Methos had ever seen or heard of. He turned an enquiring look toward Atalanta. 

'This is not the first party of travelers to disappear so,' she said. 'What I see happening here is the formation of a great tribe of robbers: vicious, filthy, perverted and mad. I cannot guess whether they took the women to provide them with pleasuring or children, but to assume that they might get either by force is...' Atalanta shrugged eloquently. 

'Mad,' Methos agreed. No, it was worse than mad; it was an assumption that everything but oneself was a soulless tool, to be used without concern -- even wasted recklessly. That was a defiance of everything known about the world. What kind of people, mortal or immortal, would conceive of such a thing? 'I see what you mean about a great evil,' he said. 'Yes, I will accept your task.' 

* * *

'In the morning, Atalanta gave me the scroll and a heavy purse of silver rings, and we returned to Sarmatia.' Methos set down his glass but remained huddled over his knees, his expression closed and grim. 

'No one had ever done -- or thought -- such things...' Sean marveled. 'Not just modern war, but rape and slaughter -- unheard of?' 

'Incredibly rare,' Methos corrected. 'Rape was difficult, as you might imagine, when the women were better trained as warriors than the men. When it did happen, well, 'defiling the Gate of Life' was a capital crime. A man who did it would have to run away as soon as he'd finished, run like a deer and keep running, clear beyond the borders of any known lands, if he intended to survive.' He hitched his shoulders higher. 'As for mass slaughter, it was inconceivably wasteful. Why kill when you could capture? Captives made useful slaves until they were ransomed; a few robbers grew wealthy on that trade, until they were finally caught themselves.' 

'The mercy of practicality,' Sean murmured, seeing it. 'And everyone thought that way...' He remembered something from another book he'd recently studied. 'And was it generally assumed that everything had a-- a soul? A mind that could be contacted, negotiated with, placated at least, for any use one wanted to make of it? Animism?' 

'Yes,' Methos sighed. 'We lived in a world of equals: humans, animals, plants, even minerals, weather, natural phenomena -- we assumed that they all had souls, minds of a sort. Life was an eternal bargaining, a constant exchange. One apologized to reeds for cutting them, and promised to scatter their seeds for them in compensation. Animals were repaid in food and care. Minerals and natural phenomena, since they had no wants we could determine, we repaid with thanks and honors. All the world was one great society, respectful and conscientious. I don't expect you to understand it.' 

'I think I do,' Sean marveled. 'It must have been...' 

'A good world.' Methos reached for the glass again, drew a deep breath, and went on. 'It took me several months to make contact with the hunters of the plains, and I knew that Atalanta and the others would fret over the delay, but it couldn't be helped. I led trade embassies to them, offering goats for what they had in abundance -- fox and ground-squirrel pelts. I told my own people that my motives were to get the plains-hunters used to trade, so they would trade rather than steal when they grew hungry. They were happy to get the goats, and within six months they grew used to me. Soon they wanted other goods besides goats, and I became their merchant. I took a two-pony cart and traveled among them, learning their dialect, taking on their manners and dress, then began working my way east and south. At each settlement, I'd pretend to be a merchant from the tribe just behind the last one; soon, nobody knew that I was originally Sarmatian. At each settlement, after trading, I'd send my previous guides back to the last tribe with their booty, and hire new ones -- always men. Eventually I made my way into the dangerous lands.' He stared at the glass as if wondering where it had come from, then drank. 'And I eventually met the patrol-riders of King Soroas.' 

* * *

Methos had noticed subtle motion in the brush, and a shift of wind revealed that the Fierce Stinking People were indeed lurking near. He waved his two guides close to the cart and spoke quietly. 

'There are robbers lurking in those bushes,' he said, 'And I mean to surprise them. Come to either side of the cart, and when I lash the horses, run quickly beside me -- with your spears ready.' 

The two men looked at each other, then grinned at him, shook their spears and boiled-leather shields, and got into position. Methos pulled his own shield higher, and under its cover drew his sword and laid it on his lap. 

The cart drew parallel to the clump of bushes, and Methos suddenly yanked the horses' reins toward it and lashed their rumps. Startled, the little horses leaped forward. The left-hand guide had to jump away from the cart's side, but then leaped forward as enthusiastically as his partner. Methos dropped the reins and whip, pinned them with his foot, took up the sword and leaned forward. The horses charged head-on into the bushes. 

Sure enough, out jumped four men -- bearded, filthy, stinking, in leather leggings and breast-plates, waving their spears and trying to look fierce. The guides engaged one each, but the other two converged on the cart. One grabbed at the horses' reins while the other jabbed his spear at Methos. Laughing at the man's clumsiness, Methos deflected the spear and rammed his sword-point into the attacker's throat. He pulled it free just as the left-hand guide downed his man and ran at the Stinkard holding the reins. The other guide seemed to be having some trouble. 'Lead him here!' Methos shouted. 'Bring him here, and I'll finish him!' 

That turned out to be a problem, since the guide was no better at arms-skill than the Stinkard. The left-hand guide had better luck, since the Stinkard holding the horses' reins refused to let go of them, and finally managed to jab his spear into the attacker's armpit. The Stinkard went down, howling. Methos grabbed the reins with his shield-weighted hand and turned his freed horses toward the other duel. The second Stinkard, seeing the battle running against him, turned and ran away. 

'After him!' Methos shouted, not waiting to see if he was obeyed or not. The horses ran the man down easily; the center-pole of the cart rammed him in the back and brought him down, and Methos steered quickly to run the horses and near wheel over him. 

He was circling the cart back toward his guides when three more men erupted out of the brush, one of them mounted on a horse a little bigger than Methos' own. One of them, grabbed for the team's reins, but missed, and the horses reared in fright. One of them caught the Stinkard in the chin with a flailing hoof, then accidentally stamped on him as he went down. 

_Only two left. No problem._ Methos deflected the oncoming rider's spear and slashed the man's arm, then turned to jab the face of the third. The blow landed, and the man dropped his spear to clutch at his spurting face and howl. Methos noted the sounds of his guides running toward him as he looked about for the third Stinkard, but the man had ridden some distance off and was clutching at his arm. 

Remembering how robbers loved to boast, Methos stood up on the cart and shouted: 'Come back, thief! Come closer, and I'll show you how to rob an honest man! I've killed dozens, scores, hundreds like you in my travels! Take my goods without payment, would you? Oh no, stinking thief; I'll have your blood in exchange! Only come a little closer...' 

Instead, the man gave him a wide-eyed look, then clumsily reined his horse around and galloped away into the brush. Methos thought briefly of following, but realized that his upset team couldn't run as quickly through these bushes, drawing a cart, as a single horse could. Reluctantly, he turned back to the others. 

The Stinkard who had tried for the reins was very still; one of the guides poked him with his spear, looked closely, then shook his head. That left one, and Methos wondered if the man was in any shape to be questioned. The Stinkard was lying on the ground, moaning, holding both hands to his face; the other guide was watching him from a safe distance, looking impressed and a trifle sick. 

'How bad is his wound?' Methos asked, not wanting to give up his defensive position on the cart. 

The two guides looked at him, then cautiously approached the fallen Stinkard, grabbed his arms and pulled his hands away from his face. 

Methos repressed a shudder at the sight. The man's face was split in half where the nose had been; a great deep gash welled blood that spread into the clenched eyes and wide-open mouth, and to judge from the sound the man was drowning slowly. No, there would be no saving this one. Methos looked at his sword, the keen metal brightly enameled with blood, and felt a shiver run up his arm. He'd practiced extensively, but only with wooden swords. He hadn't realized that the sharp metal could do that much damage. Then he thought of Balo's axe, and felt his shivering fade; this was not the worst that weapons could do. 

'What shall we do with him, milord?' the near guide asked. 'He can't be healed...' 

Methos understood. With other robbers possibly about, they couldn't take the time to stand death-watch on the man, let alone bury him and the others, never mind about proper funeral rites. 

'Leave him to the Spirits,' Methos pronounced, his voice unaccountably hoarse. 'We must get to shelter, and soon.' 

The guides, relieved, stepped away. The dying Stinkard pressed his hands back to his face and moaned softly. 

Methos reined the team away from the bushes and toward the open grassland, and the guides made haste to follow him. They moved quickly but quietly, noting that carrion-birds were already spiraling down the sky, and Methos looked ahead for any sign of water. He badly wanted to wash off his sword, and himself. 

They made good time the rest of that day, and camped that night on the top of one of the hills that rose before them. Already they could see the mountainous land ahead. Methos had them sleep and watch in shifts, sleeping under the shelter of the wagon, keeping their backs to the fire and their gaze to the land around. 

Nothing came to trouble them that night, but none of them slept well, and the guides were sullen and irritable in the morning. Methos caught grumblings of 'land of robbers and bad spirits', but his subtlest questions could get no further information. 

Knowing full well what manner of land this was, Methos kept their path to open ground as much as possible. This proved troublesome as they progressed toward the frowning mountains, for brush and light forest closed in on them. Twice Methos caught glimpses of man-sized shapes moving among the trees, and he noted that there were cleared pathways through the thickening forests. Yes, they were well into the land of mad robbers, and he had no idea of their numbers or designs. The best he could think to do was keep constant watch for them, fight them well when they came, put on an aspect of supreme confidence and boasting pride if they kept their distance. 

_I've seen them in battle, and they're poor at it,_ he reminded himself. _I've trained with the best, and can defeat any of them._ Their preference for attacking in large numbers was a problem, but the cover afforded by the forest could compensate for that. He remembered Balo's extensive tales, which he'd begged her to relate in detail all the way back to Sarmatia, about dealing with robber-gangs -- and badly wished that he might have brought the cunning old Ia-Ma-Zone with him. 

They were obliged to camp that night in a forest clearing, and Methos considered how to deal with that. The guides weren't pleased at his insistence that they do more work -- cutting saplings and sharpening their points and driving them into the ground between the trees to make a fence -- but his warnings about 'robbers and bears' made them do it quickly. Again, they took turns sleeping under the cart and watching with their backs to the fire. 

The attack came, as expected, an hour before dawn. 

Methos was awake and listening, and heard the subtle sounds of someone -- certainly not a bear -- trying to uproot the poles between two large trees on the far side of the clearing. He roused the guides with quick hands over their mouths, pointed, then circled quietly around the border of the camp until he reached the spot where the Stinkards -- his nose identified them -- were trying to clear the poles. He crouched, sword drawn and shield ready, waiting, as the nearest poles moved, drew away... 

As the first Stinkard sneaked through the gap, spear first, Methos rose up and slashed at his neck. Not waiting to see what damage his sword had done, he plunged out through the gap and stabbed at the nearest shape just below the breastplate. The man grunted and fell back, and Methos dashed at the next one. 

Behind him, screeching like eagles, came the two guides with their spears. Hoping that they'd at least cover his back and sides, Methos slashed at the man before him -- encountered a shield, slashed again, knocked away a spear-point and cut at the arm holding it. He felt the blade connect, simultaneously heard more yells, and this time stabbed. The sword-point drove into something soft, then caught. He worked his shield furiously as he pulled the sword loose, slashed again and met nothing, and stopped to look for his next target. A howl behind him told that one of his guides was down. He lunged that way, slashed, met something that was neither wood nor boiled leather and was rewarded with another yelp. Again he lunged forward, but met nothing. he caught sounds of crashing footsteps, running away, and knew better than to follow. 

'Back!' he snapped quickly to his guides, stepped backward and felt behind him for the gap between the poles. He found it, and found one of the guides pulling the other through it. Remembering Balo's lessons again, he shouted curses and insults into the shadowed forest and hoped the sound would carry. He wondered how many had been in the attack-party. Twenty? More? 

If the Stinkards were bold when attacking in overwhelming numbers, they were remarkably fearful when surprised and repulsed well. That was something to bear in mind. 

The injured guide was dead, and the survivor mourned and wailed and cried for the tribe he was certain he'd never see again. Methos kept him busy digging a proper grave and performing the minimal funerary rites while the sun rose. What became of the fallen Stinkards he didn't see, but the bodies were gone when he pulled up the poles to let out the cart in the late morning. 

The guide insisted on riding in the cart beside him, which Methos found useful for guarding his shield-side, irritating in that the man muttered pleas for protection to the spirit of every tree they passed. Methos tried to calm him by repeating, loudly, that they'd defeated two gangs of robbers already, and could handily kill any more they encountered -- guessing that hidden ears in the forest heard him. 

'But these mountains are hard to travel,' he admitted, 'And if no one lives here but worthless robbers, we may as well turn west tomorrow. There's more wealth to be made there, anyway. I've not even seen any wolves with decent pelts, let alone a good bear.' 

The guide looked at him as if he were mad. 

Methos only smiled. Let the listening robbers chew on that. 

The narrow pathway bent around a stand of aspens, and opened into a clearing -- where stood half a dozen Stinkards, mounted on their shaggy horses, in a line across the open ground. They held their spears upright, Methos noted, and their faces were painted with streaks of clay, and the one in the middle had stuck colorful feathers into his matted hair. 

The cart-horses halted by themselves, and the guide gibbered quick prayers but readied his shield and spear. Methos tossed the reins to him, stood up on the cart, drew his sword and beat its flat against his shield. 

'What, more robbers?' he shouted. 'Come ahead, then! I've killed nothing all day, and my blade is thirsty!' 

A ripple of something like nervousness passed through the line of waiting Stinkards. The central rider, the one with the feathers in his hair, kicked his horse two steps forward. 

'We are no common robbers,' he shouted back, his dialect thick but understandable. 'We are the Sons of Yatar, and this is our land. What do you here, stranger?' 

_Formalities? Progress!_ Methos lowered his sword and shouted back, 'I am Oinops, one-who-trades.' He wondered if these savages even knew the word for 'wine', let alone 'merchant'. _Time to brag again._ 'I travel from the plains to the sea, exchanging what is common for what is rare. Wealthy have I grown at that trade, and fierce to keep what is mine.' He brandished his sword, wondering if it was necessary. 'I came hence seeking new goods to trade, but found only robbers. What, then, do the Sons of Yatar?' From what he could tell, the name meant 'Great Mountain', and was a masculine noun. Why did these men call themselves sons of a male? Was there truly a mad immortal leading them? 

'We have great flocks of sheep,' the leader replied, 'And we hunt these hills. No one may come here without our leave.' 

_No hope of trading sheepskins, then,_ Methos calculated, _But there's still some wine and oil left._ Taking care not to be too deferent, he asked, 'What leave do I need to trade here? My goods are sound, and my arm is strong. Will you trade sheepskins or pelts, then?' 

The Stinkard leader looked quickly to the men flanking him, chewed his lip for a moment, then announced, 'You must come to the house of our _reio,_ Soroas. He shall give you leave -- or not, as pleases him.' 

Methos puzzled over that word; it seemed similar to 'queen' but with a masculine ending. 'Shall I be his guest, then?' he asked pointedly. Everyone knew that guests were not to be harmed -- but of course there had been exceptions, and what could one expect from madmen? 

The leader looked worried, but replied clearly, 'Surely the great warrior Oinops shall be a welcome guest in the house of King Soroas. We shall guide you to him.' 

'Very well.' Methos ostentatiously sheathed his sword, sat down and flicked the reins to urge the horses forward. 

The line of riders pulled away to either side, allowing room for the cart to pass, and the feather-headed leader trotted a few steps ahead. Methos boldly drove the cart between the waiting lines, not surprised when they closed behind him. 

'Watch our backs,' he whispered to the guide, who nodded quickly. 'And let me do all the talking.' 

* * *

Methos stopped, visibly shivered, then reached for the ice-bucket and dropped a fresh cube into his drink. Sean noticed that now his hands shook slightly, and his gestures were a trifle clumsy. 

_Drunk at last,_ Sean judged. _Did he time his drinks, and his story-telling, to make certain he was drunk when he reached this point?_ 'So you talked your way into the lion's den. A fine bit of dissembling, that. Clearly it worked, since you got out again with your head on your shoulders.' 

Methos took a slow sip of the red liqueur. 'Lucky,' he said quietly. 'A lot of times, I survived only because I froze -- with the right expression on my face.' 

Sean carefully resumed kneading Methos' bowed shoulders. 'It was very bad?' 

'Very.' Methos set down his glass with exaggerated care. 'In the millennia since I've grown used to such things, but then... It was all new. I'd never heard or seen...' Methos shook himself, and snatched a hard breath between his teeth. 

'The great-hall of King Soroas was built of wood, and badly. The roof leaked, and the wind blew in. The fire-pits smoked, which is probably all that kept the bugs under control. No lamps, only pine torches. Everyone sat on benches, at crude plank tables. Understandable. Nobody would want to recline near that floor. It was covered with dried rushes, straw, pine-needles. All manner of trash in it. And fleas. The noise was incredible. And the stink.' 

'It sounds like a description of the classic robber's den, from dozens of folk-tales.' Sean rubbed gently up Methos' neck. 

'It was the prototype...' Methos shuddered, and took another fast drink. 'There were no women present. All men.' 

'Men's house,' Sean considered. 'Men's House Culture; there are studies on that.' 

'It's a bad idea,' Methos said quietly. 'Soroas sat in a huge carved chair at the head of the main table. The chair was raised so that he looked taller than everyone else. He was also loaded down with furs and gems and weapons. It was a ludicrous display, but the men there seemed to believe in it, which I found unbelievable.' 

'If they knew of nothing else...' 

'But they did. I saw men from all over the civilized lands: pale, dark, tall, short... Despite the similarities of dress and manners, they couldn't have been more than a generation removed from their origins. Surely their mothers must have told them something...' Methos shivered again. 'I didn't understand it, but I saw that something other than ignorance kept them there. They were raucous and violent as poorly-tended children of five or less. Filthy and in poor health. Wretchedly poor, for all their trappings of furs and crude gems. Yet something made them like it, made them accept.' 

'King Soroas?' Sean guessed. 'What was his hold over them?' 

'That was what took me all that wretched time to discover.' Methos raised his head to stare into the fire. 'Best put on some more coal, Sean. This is a long and ugly tale.' 

* * *

Methos followed the feather-headed Stinkard up to the table of the head-man, Soroas, doing his best to look utterly confident and arrogant, managing to ignore the fleas that jumped at his legs, hoping that guest-right included the safety of his horses and cart. He'd have little to bargain with if the door-guards and stablehands looted the cart while he was in here. The guide trotted behind him, keeping quiet and very watchful. 

Soroas was not tall or very muscular, and certainly not beautiful. He had the look of the Thessalian people, but with a touch of something else that Methos couldn't identify. There was something very intent, very observant and absorbed, about his expression. There was something subtly wrong with his eyes -- perhaps in the way he stared, as if his gaze could drill through rock. The feathered guard-leader stopped before the table and made many elaborate gestures of obeisance before launching into his mercifully brief tale. Methos waited until the man fell silent, and the head-man's piercing gaze fell on him, then repeated what he had said on the trail. 

'A merchant?' The head-man's voice was sharp and scratchy. 'You look not fat and soft enough to be a merchant.' 

Methos recognized the sneer, and the challenge, though he could see no reason for either. He slammed his fist against his shield and pulled himself up taller. 

'Fat and soft, say you?' he trumpeted. 'I say, I have defeated two robber-bands in three days, and hunted wolf and bear for sport -- and the great aurochs as well! I have slain robbers from the plains to the sea! I fear no man, and will gladly slay any who dispute it!' _If I can get them to come at me one at a time..._ 'Aye, and any who despise my trade! Know you, by my trade I have made myself wealthy among the people of the northern plains! In the fiercest winter I am warm and well-fed, and my house is strong! Horses have I, and cattle, and many sheep! Aye, and many have I slain who tried to take those from me!' _Not really, but they wouldn't know._ He ended by striking a pose so exaggerated that it would have made the audience at the year-play snicker, and bellowing: 'Do any dare dispute me?' 

No one did. 

'Well said!' head-man Soroas smiled, showing crooked teeth. 'Spoken like a true man.' 

Methos inclined his head two degrees in acknowledgement, but said nothing, wondering what that last phrase was supposed to mean. Did head-man -- 'reios'? 'He-queen'? -- Soroas fear false men? Just how could a man be false? Or did he mean mortals as distinct from immortals? 

'Come, sit by me,' Soroas said, shoving the man next to him away down the bench. The man threw an angry look at Methos, not Soroas for some reason. 'I would ask for news of the citified lands.' 

_He knows of the existence of cities,_ Methos thought, settling onto the space on the bench. 

His guide paused a moment in indecision, but then a servant tugged him away toward another table. Methos didn't dare pay too much attention, knowing the man was safe for the moment. 

A servant ran up -- an older man, as filthy as the rest and dressed worse, also showing bruises of various ages on his face and arms -- handed Methos a wooden cup and filled it from a battered bronze pitcher. The stuff didn't smell like wine; it was brown, and covered with thick tan foam, but it smelled better than everything else in this hall. Methos held his breath and drank a hearty mouthful. It was thick and bitter and had a taste somewhat like bread. He could, he decided, get used to this stuff. He noted Soroas watching him, and nodded appreciatively. 'What do you call this?' he asked. 

'Beer,' said Soroas. 'We make it from barley sprouts.' He shoved a greasy platter at Methos, and gestured for him to take what he wanted. 'Good venison this night,' he went on. 'One can eat only so much of mutton and horseflesh.' 

Methos nodded again, quickly, and reached for a handful of undercooked ribs. _These people commonly eat horses?!_ He couldn't believe the wasteful stupidity of it. Even in Sarmatia, where horses were plentiful, people ate them only as a sacrament at the annual feast of Epona. The venison was tough, and tasted of too much aging, but he chewed resolutely into the meat. There were, he noted, no fruits or vegetables or cheeses at the table -- only meat and beer and a coarse bread that must have been made from the same barley. These people could benefit greatly from trade, yet seemed to despise it. 

'So,' Soroas smiled wider, which was not a pretty sight. 'Why should a prosperous merchant, well able to defend himself, come unto our poor--' He said a word that Methos had difficulty translating, apparently a masculine version of 'queen's realm'. '--seeking trade? As you've seen, the hills are hard to climb and there are robbers about.' 

_So his scouts did hear that. Remember to brag._ 'I did not grow wealthy by being fearful,' said Methos. 'I always seek out new lands and tribes for trade, hoping to find rare goods that no one else has. This 'beer' of yours, for example: I know of no other people who make it.' 

'Yes, a drink for true men,' Soroas replied, lifting his own cup and taking a healthy swig. 

_That term again._ 'Have you no use for wine, then? If so, I'll have little to trade here.' _Providing there's anything left in the cart by now._

'But yes.' Soroas' eyes narrowed. 'We use wine in ceremonies, to honor Yatar. I believe we might...trade...for that.' 

'Who is this Yatar you speak of?' _And how can men be sons of a male?_ 'I confess, I've not heard of him.' 

Soroas leaned closer, intent eyes glittering in the torchlight. 'Yatar,' he almost whispered, 'Is the only true _theaun._ ' 

Methos struggled to translate that; it was part of the word for 'goddess', but chopped so that the ending was masculine -- similar to 'demigod', but shorter. 

'All the rest,' Soroas went on, 'All these demigods and divine heroes and goddesses and spirits, they are but babes compared to him.' 

'Truly?' _An immortal?_ 'Then I would greatly like to see him.' 

Soroas hissed and recoiled. 'No one sees Yatar!' he whispered fiercely. 'Do not even speak of it!' 

'No one?' _Play stupid._ 'What, is he fearful of human eyes? How can that be, if he is so powerful?' 

Soroas slapped the table in exasperation, but recovered quickly and smiled again. 'He is most surely not fearful. On the contrary, he does not appear before men because the power of his presence might burn them to ashes. He does not wish that for us, being a stern but loving _pitar._ ' 

Another bizarre word, and Methos could make no sense of it. Best let it go until later. 'How then does he make his will known? Does he speak from behind a wall?' 

'From a mountain, sometimes.' Soroas' eyes focused on something far away, changing his expression to something eerie and unfathomable. 'More often, he speaks in the minds of his chosen instruments.' 

Methos repressed a shiver, thinking of humans being used as 'instruments' -- tools. And how did Yatar do this? Did he have greater mind-powers than Tarrhon of Etruria? Was he another immortal or not? 

And where were the women? What had become of Potnia and her surviving priestess? 

'Ah, then I must seek out these hearers of Yatar to learn his will,' Methos continued playing thick-head. 'Where shall I find them?' 

'There is only one.' Soroas smiled widely, and his eyes fixed on Methos with a jittery gleam that couldn't be mistaken. 'Myself. I am the Mouth of Yatar. His foremost priest. He speaks in my head, and reveals great wonders to me. Such great wonders...' 

_Mad,_ Methos realized, going cold. _The he-queen, head-man, chief of this tribe of robbers, is insane. But is there truly a demigod who speaks to him, or is it only echoes of his own mad maunderings?_ He felt his jaw drop, and nodded his head as if in complete acceptance, hoping he looked stupid and awed instead of horrified. 

'He is also wise,' Soroas went on. 'With his guidance I have made this--' 

Again he used that odd word for his land. This time Methos understood that it meant 'he-queen's realm', no mistake. 

'--out of nothing, in this wilderness. His guidance and power brought settlers to me, as you see.' Soroas waved a hand toward the crowded hall and its occupants. 'Following his path, I will make of this a mighty realm, and shall punish the cities of the sea-lands for their insolence and lies...' He paused, and his eyes flickered, as if realizing he'd said a few words too much. 

_Careful!_ 'Ah, the rulers of some sea-lands insulted you? Or Yatar?' Methos did his best to look trusting. 

'Yes.' Soroas deliberately withdrew his stare and reached for his food and drink. 'It's a long tale, good Oinops. Let's eat and drink first.' 

'Oh yes,' Methos agreed, taking several gulps from his cup. He could, he decided, learn to enjoy this drink. He tried another innocent question. 'Ah, but where are the women hereabouts? Are there none at all in your lands?' 

'They eat elsewhere,' said Soroas, not looking at him. 'We keep separate houses.' 

'Ah,' Methos nodded again. He'd heard of a few tribes where the women and men lived in different villages; they were said to be poor, and the men ill-mannered and dirty. It would explain much, if these Stinkards kept similar state. 

'But tell me of the other city-realms,' Soroas went on, trying to sound cheerful. 'I've had little news of late. What saw you there?' 

_Careful. He hates them..._ 'The trade is good, and the cities grow fat with it. My people have seen the benefits to be gained, and trade pelts for livestock, so there is less hunger in the hard times. Would that we had bigger horses, like yours.' 

'Ah, trade.' Soroas smiled briefly, but it didn't reach his eyes. 'But what else did you see there? Do the city-states have many armed men?' 

_Aha!_ 'Oh yes, and women too. Among the Sarmatians, everyone trains in arms from childhood. Among the Thessalians, there are many temples which train Ia-Ma-Zone'i. Among--' 

He stopped, seeing that Soroas was shaking furiously, as if he'd tasted something vile. 

'What ails?' he asked innocently. 'Have you choked on a bone?' 

Soroas coughed hard and swallowed several mouthfuls of beer. 'Just a bit of gristle,' he said. 'But all the cities have men at arms, you say? Not just...women?' 

'All that I've seen.' _True enough._

'Hmm. And have you seen any lands ruled by men, not just queens or goddesses?' Soroas carefully didn't look at him, tried to keep his voice light. 

'Certainly. Etruria and western Thessaly, so I hear, are ruled by demigods. They say that Caria and Sarmatia have divine heroes, and I've heard tell of others.' _Why this constant emphasis on males?_

'So...' Soroas sat back in his great chair, his expression both sour and calculating. 'A man may rule, but only if he claims divinity.' 

_Careful!_ 'It is so. I've heard it said that, were there more divine folk, there should be no mortal rulers at all.' 

'No more queens...' Soroas' eyes narrowed. He twitched his head once, as if shaking away an irrelevant thought, then smiled widely and turned to pin Methos with his stare again. 'And tell me, bold Oinops, what thought you of the men in the city-states?' 

_All this harping on males. Hatred for the cities..._ Methos picked his words with infinite care. 'I thought them childish,' he shrugged. 'Whining over clothes and ungrateful children, ever posing prettily for the women, too often idle. It is better among the Plains People.' 

'Yes, just so!' Soroas hissed through his teeth, eyes beginning to glitter again. 'That is what men are like when held down by women's skirts, never knowing their true power, their true destiny. There are no true men in the city-realms!' 

Methos couldn't think how to reply to that. All he could do was nod sagely and hide his face in his cup. 

Soroas leaned closer, trying to pin Methos with his fixed eyes and knowing smile. 'Tell me, good Oinops, when you traveled among the cities, did you not feel...restricted? A bit stifled? Ever so slightly impatient with the need to be so delicate, so mannerly, so careful not to offend all those women who are so ready to take offense?' 

Again Methos nodded dumbly, and took another sip of the beer. A quick glance around the hall showed the men at the lower tables swapping boasts and insults, gestures loose and sloppy. They were drunk, he realized; drunk on this weak stuff. Not used to wine, let alone strong winter-wine, as he was: this beer intoxicated them easily. He could pretend to be taken by it himself; Soroas would probably believe it. The plains-folk, after all, had no strong drink -- their preferred intoxicant was hemp-flower tea -- and as one of them, he'd be expected to yield to beer easily. He'd mentioned trading wine, and his assumed name meant 'wine-face' if Soroas could translate it, but there was still a good chance that the man would believe. 

'True,' Methos mumbled. 'Hemmed in by all those fancy manners...' He couldn't help remembering Lauina. 'Miserably picky rules. Do this, it's dignified; don't do that, it's not dignified...' 

Soroas laughed knowingly, hard enough to spill a bit of his beer. 'Oh, yes! 'Dignified', 'civilized', 'proper'... Woman-words! Enslaving words, driven into boys from the time they're born, meant to keep us eternally serving them -- like their dogs...turning wolves into dogs...robbing us of our true nature, our true power and destiny...of all we can be once we're free of them...leading us around by the ears when we're children, by the phallos when we're grown...' 

Methos kept nodding stupidly, and took another mouthful of the beer. He managed to repress a shiver, but a quiet chill settled into his bones. _Soroas hates women. He hates the civilized lands. And he's mad. And he may or may not be working for a hidden immortal. How much worse can this be?_ 'So we should live apart from them, right?' he tried. 'Just go to them for pleasuring, and otherwise leave them alone?' 

'Oh, no. That leaves them too free to plot mischief.' Soroas leaned closer still, smiling so widely that his stained teeth gleamed in the torchlight. 'No, good Oinops; we reverse the balance.' 

'Eh?' Methos felt as stupid as he sounded. 'What mean you?' 

'We give them Yatar's justice!' The man's voice sounded as righteous as a judge pronouncing sentence, but his smile twisted into a leer. 'We serve them as they have served us! Oh yes, we put them in their own place, but locked up and guarded -- with true walls, as they've made walls for us, for our spirits, with their lofty scolding and enslaving words and playing on our own desires. Pen them up, so they have no food save from our hands, and make them pleasure us when we will -- not just when they summon us. We make them serve us as they have too long made us serve them.' Soroas lifted his cup with a flourish, solemnly drained it, and held it out for a servant to refill. 

'I see.' _The abducted women. He means to keep them for slaves, not ransom them, ever. Slaves subject to..._ Methos hid his face in his cup, fast. 

'And we shall make them breed sons for us,' Soroas went on, smiling madly. 'Sons we will raise our own way, to be true men and not women's pets.' 

_Make them breed..._ 'What if they refuse?' Methos asked, feeling left behind again. 

For answer, Soroas laughed ferociously. 'There are ways, good Oinops. There are ways! Oh yes, there are ways... Ah, but that's the great secret they keep from us, isn't it? Eh?' 

'Huh?' was all Methos could say. 

Soroas blinked several times and subsided into wet chuckling. 'Ah, my joke. I'll tell you the secret, in time...the great secret Yatar revealed unto me...how they lie...' He took up his cup and drained half of it. 

Methos thought it wise to do the same. 

'Our destiny as men,' Soroas continued, perfectly calm as he set down his cup. 'Once free to become what is truly within us.' 

'And what's that?' Methos managed to ask. 

'To overcome all the world.' Soroas aimed his stare at Methos again, but seemed to look through him and beyond. 'To make it all ours, make it all serve us -- the true men. To rule tomorrow as these queens and goddesses rule now. All ours. Think of it, Oinops! All ours!' 

Methos nodded his head slowly, trying to wrap his mind around that concept. He remembered Netin's tale, the description of the pointless slaughter, the shocking waste, the contempt for plain sense and the sensibilities of everything in the world... The pieces of the puzzle connected, and he saw the whole picture of Soroas' mad dream. It was astounding, and appalling. 'Not to care what any creature thinks of us! Not anyone--' 

'Yes! Yes! You understand!' Soroas laughed in triumph. 'The freedom, the power-- No more of their nattering: 'don't touch that vine, you might hurt it', 'don't pull the dog's tail, he won't like it', 'don't piss on that wall, the stones will be offended'. No more of that! I'll piss on whatever I wish! Free, by Yatar! Free!' 

Methos felt his jaw drop, and could only nod again, knowing he looked stupid and knowing that was his key to survival right now. He understood, at last, what drew these men to Soroas and his mad dream. 

* * *

'Childishness,' Sean whispered, awed. 'Freud's paper, 'His Majesty, the Baby', detailed how a baby is like a king, in that he need only call for what he wants... No one ever turned it around, and compared kings to babies! The infantilism of tyrants-- ye gods!' 

'I saw it,' said Methos. 'The ultimate spoiled brat, grown up to be the ultimate bully, delighted to ignore everyone's desires but his own. That was what he offered them: freedom from all responsibility, all consideration for the world, all thought of consequences. An evil so monstrous I couldn't put words to it.' 

'And he gathered like-minded men to him.' Sean caught himself shivering, got up and put more coal on the fire. He came back to the couch and took another sip of the fiery liqueur. 'He was gathering an army, planning to conquer the known world.' 

'He didn't just gather them.' Methos shuddered, and reached for his glass. 'He had it all planned, in immense detail. I saw much of that, in the next few days. Indeed, he was happy to show me: pleased, boasting of it.' 

'Because he believed you were a willing convert.' 

'I was very careful not to disabuse him of that notion.' 

* * *

The feast ended with most of the Stinkards too drunk to stand. He-Queen Soroas stood up, cast an approving eye around the hall and tugged at Methos' elbow. 'Come with me, brave Oinops,' he said, sounding only a little slurred. 'You'll lie in the guest-chamber, not in the hall with the rest.' 

_They sleep in this foul barn?!_ Methos noted some of the Stinkards rousing enough to pull their benches over to walls, then lying down on them. He would rather have slept outdoors, on turf, himself. For that matter, there weren't enough benches for all these men to lie down on. Where did the rest sleep? On the littered tables? On the filthy floor? He shuddered, and made haste to follow Soroas. 

The chamber to which Soroas led him was small, opulent, filthy and surprising. The walls, like all the rest Methos had seen, were made of clay-chinked logs. It was lit with another torch, recently lighted and dripping pitch. There were, ominously, no windows. The floor was strewn with more rushes, decorated with a few balding goat-hides, and sported more fleas. The only furniture was a battered clothes-chest that appeared to have originated in Truia, a small table holding a cup and pitcher filled with more beer, a reeking chamber-pot in a corner, and a wide bed covered with assorted furs. 

Huddled at one corner of the bed was a woman: blonde, apparently young, scrawny, unwashed, wearing only a thin shift and poorly-applied cosmetics that didn't completely conceal the stains of old bruises. There was a shackle on her left ankle, attached to a chain whose other end was stapled to the bed-frame. She winced as the two men entered, then quickly plastered a vacuous smile on her face. 

'As you see,' Soroas chortled, 'Everything a man could want.' 

Methos nodded, as if in approval. 

'Unless, of course, you'd prefer a boy?' 

'No, this will do well,' Methos said quickly, taking a step into the chamber. _'A boy'? Men mating with children?! What next? Goats?_ 'Well, a fair night to you.' 

Soroas chuckled, and shut the door between them. The woman's fake smile faltered. 

Methos glanced hastily around the windowless room, feeling trapped. Would Soroas block the door behind him? 'Oh, rot it! I forgot about my servant,' he said loudly, then turned on his heel and went to the door. No, it opened at a touch. A glance through the opening showed only fading torchlight and Soroas' retreating back. Relieved, Methos waited until the man was gone, then retraced his steps to the main hall. 

He walked in on the sight of half a dozen Stinkards swarming around the slumped body of his guide, pawing at the man, trying to pull off his gear and clothes. They stopped fast as they saw Methos approach. He didn't try to imagine what they'd been up to, simple robbery or something more, but seized the nearest torch from the wall and strode through them as if they didn't exist. He grabbed the guide's shoulder and shook him roughly. 

'Wake up, you dolt,' he growled. 'Go see to my horses and gear. Waken, you drunken lout.' 

The guide only mumbled and twitched. 

Methos cuffed him, swore and snarled while the Stinkards backed away giggling, and finally pulled the man to his feet. The guide wakened enough to move his own legs, and Methos half-carried him out the door while growling more oaths and insults. The Stinkards behind laughed, and made no effort to follow. 

The door to the Great Hall swung shut behind them, and the fresh air of night revived the guide enough that he managed to walk by himself. 'Strong drink,' he muttered, 'Strong...' 

'Don't drink any more of it,' Methos cautioned, trying to find the stables by the fitful light of the torch. 'Didn't you notice that they were trying to rob you?' 

The guide shook his head and frowned. 'Strong drink,' he mumbled again. 

Methos turned his attention to the tracks in the muddy ground, found hoofprints, followed them and eventually found the stable. There was no guard, and the building was unlighted. Methos peered inside, taking care with the torch, and saw a string of horses lined up along the far wall, tied to a single long manger. The straw on the floor was fresh, and the barn was marginally less filthy than the great-hall; at least He-Queen Soroas' men had the sense to keep their animals somewhat clean. His own horses were tied at the end of the line, and his cart -- undisturbed, he noted thankfully -- stood against the wall. He led the stumbling guide toward the cart, and piled clean straw under it. 

'Sleep here,' he said quietly, 'And keep your spear close.' 

'Spear...' the man mumbled as he dutifully crawled under the cart. 'Where is it?' 

'You didn't bring it into the hall with you?' 

'The door-guards took it...' The man blinked as if trying to remember. 

Methos swore quietly, pulled an axe from the cart and handed it to the guide. 'Keep this, then. Don't take it to the hall, or the guards will steal it. Try not to sleep too heavily.' 

The guide, a little more alert now, clutched the axe and nodded. 

Methos sighed and turned away, and walked back to the great-hall. The door-guards, he saw, were gone: probably inside, devouring the last of the food. He was free to wander around in the dark if he chose, but he didn't know the ground and would have a hard time explaining his presence to any sentries. Best to return, and learn what he might by daylight tomorrow. 

The Stinkards inside the hall had mostly settled down to sleep -- yes, some of them on the strewn table and some on the floor -- and gave him little notice. Methos made his way back to the guest-room, closed the door behind him and looked for some way to bar it from the inside. There was nothing but a flimsy latch, so he used that, then stubbed out his torch on the floor and wedged it against the door. The other torch still burned, and looked as if it might last until morning. He turned back to the bed, shuddered at the thought of lying naked on that pile of hides, finally took off no more than his boots and cloak and laid them on top of the clothes-chest. He unfastened his sword-belt, but propped the sword against the wall beside the bed. At last he lay down, finding the bedding as lumpy and fleasome as he'd feared, and waved the woman closer. 

'What's your name?' he asked quietly, wondering if, and when, he could free her. 

The woman frowned and shook her head. 

Methos tried again, and again, in every tongue he knew, but the woman understood none of them. All she could communicate was to present her breasts, shake her hips and spread her thighs. Methos gave up, pointed to his shoulders and explained with gestures that he wanted no more than massage. The woman complied, seeming grateful that he asked for nothing else. As she rubbed, Methos wondered where she came from, how she'd been brought here, and what had been done to her to make her so fearful and useless for anything but bed-service. He wondered how he could manage to sleep in this horrendous place. 

Nonetheless, he managed -- and was awakened in the morning by shouts and horns blaring. Soon afterward, a Stinkard guard came pounding on the door to announce that He-Queen Soroas wished his guest Oinops to attend him at once. Cursing quietly, Methos pulled on his boots and weapon-belt, did his best to ignore the persistent fleas, and went out to see what the chieftain wanted. 

Soroas, wearing less finery but more weapons, awaited him in the hall. The man looked gleeful, almost hopping from foot to foot in eagerness, like a child waiting to tell a marvelous secret. 'Ah, Oinops,' he smiled widely. 'How did you enjoy your accommodations?' 

Methos shrugged elaborately. 'A good bed, but the girl was a fool. She understood nothing I said to her. For tonight, might I have one who speaks a sensible tongue?' 

Soroas' smile faltered only briefly. 'Ah, my guest, tonight you shall have your pick of the women's house. You may have any, save the one who wears gold; that one, I confess, I prefer for myself.' 

'That will suit me well,' Methos smiled. _Yes! See where they keep the women. Look for Potnia and her priestess..._ 'So, what of today? Shall we sit at council and decide upon trade? Or perhaps hunt for bear?' 

'Neither,' Soroas chortled, bouncing on his heels. 'Today I shall reveal to you the power of true men. Come, have some more beer with me, and then we'll set off.' 

Methos shook his head with a wincing gingerliness which was not entirely feigned. 'No, no beer yet,' he groaned believably. 'My head still aches from last night. Only show me the way to the well, for I need cold water to clear my head.' 

Soroas laughed heartily, and led Methos outside. The second path to the right from the great-hall's door -- Methos took care to note -- brought them to a decent-sized well, near a granary. Methos pulled up a large jug of water and noted that it none too clean; did Soroas' men often suffer from gut-pains and fluxes on its account? He took a small sip, then unceremoniously poured the rest over his head. It was cold enough to stop the last twinges of his headache, and washed away at least some of the fleas. 

Soroas laughed again, and led him back toward the great-hall. From its dooryard they took another path, wide and well trampled, that led past a screen of trees to a wide clearing. 

In the rough field stood perhaps a hundred of Soroas' men, all looking the worse for their night's drinking, but all standing rigidly beside their spears, holding their wood-and-hide shields. They were positioned in tight lines one step apart, the lines were staggered into blocks two steps apart, and the blocks were aligned next to each other some three paces apart, as if arranged for some bizarre ritual dance. A fatter, older, more heavily decorated man strode up and down the lines screaming abuse at the men. At length he stepped back from the lines and screamed something so hoarsely that Methos couldn't make out the words. At once, all the men tucked their spears tight against their shoulders. Another screamed command, and they all simultaneously pointed their spears forward, just missing each other. 

At that point Methos realized that this was some sort of combat-training; the whole point of the odd positioning was to bring all the spear-points facing the same way, at the same moment. The Ia-ma-zone'i had a similar trick, taught to them by a dancing-master, signaled by whistles or horn-blasts -- but they accomplished it much more smoothly and quickly. This mechanical method was awkward and slow. 

And what was the point of the screaming abuse? For that matter, why let the men drink themselves into hangovers the night before -- or, conversely, why make them practice so early in the morning after drinking themselves stuporous? 

'What are they doing?' he asked Soroas, with studied stupidity. 

'Practicing the secret of our success,' Soroas chuckled. 'Train a hundred men to move as a single body, commanded by a single mind, and no enemy can stand before them.' 

'Uh...' _'A single mind'? No use for individual wit or skill? They are only compliant bodies?_ 'They're all wretched from last night's drinking.' 

'Yes, yes, quite miserable.' Soroas' smile tightened into something wolfish. 'That is part of Lord Yatar's cleverness.' 

'Huh?' _Yatar intends this?_

'Train men to act as one, even when they're suffering miserably, and they won't flinch from wounds in battle. Besides...' Soroas gave Methos a sidelong look. 'When their heads are thick with beer or pain, they have less will to contest their superior's. We train them to obey, absolutely, when they can't think; then the training holds, even when they may be capable of thought.' 

'Uh...' Methos nodded vaguely, as if only partly understanding, while the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He saw another piece of the mosaic falling into place, and the pattern it shaped was horrifying. _Mindless bodies, controlled by their master's mind. Deliberately making them mindless. Snuffing out the sparks of their spirits. This man cares nothing for souls -- not those of plants, animals, or other human beings._ Methos managed to suppress a shudder at the appalling sacrilege. 

'With ten such hundreds, each commanded by a man loyal to me-- to Yatar, I can take a city,' Soroas purred, flexing his fingers. 

'Yes...' Methos nodded slowly. 'The cities of the sea-lands. But they have armies too.' 

'Armies of coddled children, commanded by women!' Soroas snapped, showing his teeth. 'None of them can stand against my men, true men, hardened against pain and fear, trained to act as one -- as a hundred fingers on a single hand. No, Yatar has shown me the way, and I have used it, and I shall have the victory!' 

_Not entirely immune to pain or fear,_ Methos considered, remembering the Stinkards he'd fought. 'Uh, but what if they turn away from their...training in the face of a real enemy?' 

Soroas laughed again, as if he'd anticipated that question. 'Watch,' he almost whispered. 'Watch for the next command. One of them's sure to...' 

Sure enough, at that moment the decorated man shouted another incomprehensible order, and the Stinkards simultaneously raised their spears and turned to the left. Two of the spears tangled. The two men quickly wrestled them apart, but not fast enough to avoid the notice of their commander. The man screamed more abuse and ran straight into the packed lines, heedlessly shoving men aside. He came back out of the press dragging one of the offenders by the neck. Ignoring the man's howls, the commander threw him face-down on the ground and stamped on his back to flatten him. The other Stinkards closed ranks hastily, and watched with round-eyed fascination. The shouting man pulled something out of his belt -- Methos saw that it was a thick piece of vine-staff -- and began flailing the downed man heavily on the back, buttocks and thighs. The blows were hard, fast, and seemed endless; the beaten man's howls soon changed in tones from terror to agony. 

Soroas chuckled. 'See how the others learn from the example,' he said. 

'...That man will be useless for a quarter-moon, at least,' Methos managed to say. 

'True men are not so soft as that,' Soroas sneered. 'Four days' rest is the most he'll get. If he can't hold a spear by then... Well, you'll see. Come.' 

Chuckling again, Soroas led the way along the screen of trees, further down the broad path, to another clearing. This one likewise sported a man bellowing abuse and perhaps a hundred Stinkards in battle-gear, but with a notable exception. 

These were all children. They were boys, little boys, none so old as ten winters. They stood in the same pattern as the men, just as rigidly, except for the faint shivering of their little spears whenever their commander strode past them, and their lack of leggings. 

_Perhaps they're bare-legged so as not to show the result when they wet themselves,_ Methos thought, feeling a little light-headed. 'Small boys?' he asked stupidly. 

'The younger they start, the better,' Soroas smiled. 'We take them from their mothers as soon as they can walk, ride, and hold a spear -- no more than five winters. We raise them in the Boys' House, far from the pernicious influence of women, and train them from dawn to dusk.' 

'But...children need...' Methos floundered. He didn't dare say 'mothering', but what other term could he use? 'Love and guidance and tending and...' 

'They get that from their _pitars._ ' Soroas gestured toward the commander. 'Stern but loving, demanding but rewarding--' 

'And punishing,' Methos guessed. He thought of the savage beating he'd just witnessed, and tried to imagine that being done to a child. The idea made him ill. 

'Of course. Nothing soft or womanish in their training. Punishment for disobedience, rewards for doing well. Like the legendary donkey, with the carrot in front and the stick behind.' 

'Ah, but what's to keep the donkey from ducking sideways?' _Just where are the harness-straps that keep them in line?_

'Inevitability!' Soroas raised his face to the sun with an almost worshipful expression. 'The boys cannot leave the household grounds; they're watched by their _pitars_ every waking moment. They have no food nor drink, save from their _pitars'_ hands. They never hear any tales of escaping Yatar's will, or indeed tales of anything but Yatar's will. They know, and think, of nothing else.' 

_Chains of ignorance for the children, chains of childish fears and rewards for the adults. He smothers their minds, their souls._ Methos understood, and suppressed another shudder. 'But what rewards do they have?' 

'Patience, good Oinops.' Soroas picked his way to a fallen tree-trunk at the edge of the clearing, and sat down on it. 'Come sit, share some more beer with me, and wait but a little. You'll see, soon enough.' 

Methos duly sat down, hoping his fleas would leap to Soroas, who seemed not to mind them. 'No beer just yet,' he demurred, 'My head still feels fragile. But... While we wait, pray tell me the tales of this Yatar who rules here.' 

'Tales are for children,' Soroas shrugged. 'What does it serve a man to hear how Yatar defeated this she-monster or that treacherous enemy? Tales but reveal lessons, and a true man is more concerned with the lessons themselves. You are a clever man, Oinops, so let me go straight to the lessons.' 

'There's more, then? Besides the secret that women...unfairly restrain men? And the knowledge of your...training?' 

'Oh yes, much more.' Soroas leaned closer. 'First, know you that Yatar has no mortal body.' 

'He's an immortal, then?' Methos blurted. 

'No, no, not as those stupid goddesses are,' Soroas snapped, mood changing like a spring wind. 'He is beyond that. He is above all fleshly things. I tell you, he has no body!' 

'...No body?' 

'He is entirely spirit! He does not even trouble to take visible form. All spirit, and all the more powerful for that.' Soroas' eyes had taken on that eerie far-seeing look again, and his voice dropped to something tense and fierce. 'All the more powerful... That is the secret he whispered to me. Listen, my friend: souls are separate from bodies.' 

'...Well, I know that our spirits part from our bodies when we die--' 

'More than that! More than that!' Flecks of foam began to appear at the corners of Soroas' mouth. 'We _are_ spirits! We only live in bodies for a time. Our spirits really have nothing to do with our vile bodies, which are only imperfect tools in an imperfect world...' 

_No doubt, that's why you treat bodies so vilely!_ 'But then, if only the spirit is important, we cannot discount the spirits of all other living things--' 

'No, no, you don't understand! Only true men have true souls!' 

'Uh... But other things live...' 

'Those are but crude, weak things.' Soroas waved his hands as if shooing flies. 'They have life-force, yes, and some poor awareness, perhaps fit to be reborn in another imperfect body in this imperfect world -- a useless, pointless cycle of eternal enslavement -- fit mostly for use, for fodder, by true souls...' 

Watching the flecks of foam grow on the man's beard, Methos fought down a blind urge to get up and run. '...True souls?' he managed. 

Soroas' voice sank back to a conspiratorial whisper. 'Only true men have complete souls, souls that can be truly enlightened, can depart from the cycle of eternal return and achieve freedom, become free and powerful even as Yatar is, have mastery over the realm of spirits, become true gods!' 

'I...see...' Methos whispered, knowing he looked as stunned as he felt, hoping Soroas would take that as 'enlightenment'. 

* * *

_'Bon Dieu,'_ Sean whispered, awed. 'So that's where it began! 'Escape from the wheel', superior and inferior souls, separation of man from nature... And more! The separation of the sexes, abusive child-rearing, boys raised in barracks-- To be cannon-fodder! All that, all that...' He badly wanted to get up and pace, or make frantic notes, but didn't dare leave Methos now; he could see the unmistakable glimmer of tears in the man's eyes. 

'I should have killed him,' Methos whispered. 'I wanted to, but couldn't find a time when his guards weren't near. Gods, I should have done it anyway, then taken off running. Even if they'd caught me, they didn't know I was an immortal; there was a good chance they didn't know how to kill me...' He reached for his glass with an unsteady hand. 

'Even so, they might have hacked you to pieces on general principles.' Sean kneaded Methos' shoulders with steady, soothing strokes. 'There was so much you didn't know, couldn't be sure of.' 

'I have kicked myself for more than 3000 years because I didn't take that chance.' Methos gulped his glass half-empty. 'I know, I know I didn't understand what I was facing, how that poison would spread through the world...and perhaps I was too stunned with horror to think properly, considering what came after...' 

'You didn't steal away then?' 

'No. He had more to tell me...and show me...' 

* * *

Soroas smiled widely, benignly, at the look on Methos' face. 'Ah, you begin to understand, don't you?' he purred. 'What we could be, what secrets the women keep from us.' 

Methos only nodded, incapable of saying anything more. 

Just then, more shouting came from the rough meadow and a ram's horn blared. Soroas turned to look, and Methos did likewise. 

The commander shouted at the boys, who stepped backward with nervous precision. Further bellows made them arrange themselves into three lines against the western edge of the clearing; then the first rank sat and the second rank knelt while the last rank stood. The only advantage of the maneuver, as far as Methos could see, was to allow everyone a good view of the field. 

'Now watch,' said Soroas. 'Another of Yatar's lessons.' 

More horns and shouts, and the troop of a hundred Stinkards came marching into the meadow in tight formation, all moving at the same step, like stiff dancers, led by their bellowing commander. 

'They even walk like that?' Methos asked. 

'Of course,' Soroas frowned. 'It maintains discipline, teaches them to move as one, think as one. Watch.' 

The Stinkards paced into the meadow, guided by the shouts of the decorated man, stopped at the far end from Soroas and turned neatly about. At that point, as if noticing their he-queen for the first time, they raised their spears and shouted together. Soroas graciously stood up, raised both hands over his head and shouted back: 'Sons of Yatar!' The men repeated their gesture and noise. Soroas sat back down and waved a negligent hand toward the commander as if to say 'proceed'. 

Before Methos could think of anything to ask, more noise came from the wide pathway. Another group of Stinkards came into the meadow, but not in step this time. They were herding -- driving, with whips -- another collection of perhaps 30 men, but these were strikingly ragged, bruised, limping, and distinctly underfed. They too carried spears of a sort -- thin sapling-poles, sharpened and scorched at one end, probably fire-hardened -- with no other points: not copper nor even flint. They also carried shields, but made of only tight-woven wicker. They had no armor, and most of them wore no shoes. They also looked wretched and terrified; had it not been for the half-circle of whip-armed Stinkards behind them, they would doubtless have run away. 

'Who...?' Methos pointed at the miserable gaggle. 

'Disobedient slaves, soldiers who failed in their duty, prisoners, other useless sorts,' Soroas shrugged. 'Now you'll see: punishment, reward and training, all in a single exercise. Such is the wisdom of Yatar.' 

Methos nodded again, not daring to say anything. _Training? A hundred strong, well-armed men against 30 weaklings with sticks? What can this possibly teach anyone but--_

Then he remembered that the Stinkards usually attacked in overwhelming numbers, against lesser-armed and unready foes. 

He guessed, with a sinking feeling, what the 'punishment' would be. 

_But what's the reward here?_

More shouts came from the commander. The Stinkard army aimed their spears forward, and charged. 

The ragged gang of prisoners saw what was coming. A few of them tried to turn and run, but were beaten back by the whip-bearing guards. The rest put up their shields and aimed their spears as best they could, getting in each other's way, only a few trying to form any kind of line. 

The charging block of Stinkards rushed into the prisoners with a clatter of copper on wood and a chorus of howls. The miserable gang of prisoners went down like brush before an axe, only their close-packed position keeping any of them alive after the first moment. 

_Butchery, and nothing else._ Methos didn't dare turn his face away, knowing that Soroas watched him, but he managed to flick his eyes elsewhere-- 

\--and saw, and heard, the little boys jumping up and down and screaming in excitement. Their commander smiled, and did nothing to restrain them. 

_The reward!_ Methos understood. _In exchange for their misery, the joys of blood-lust. He teaches this to children!_

For the next several seconds Methos had to concentrate on quelling his stomach, grateful that there was nothing in it. By the time he could focus his eyes again, most of the slaughter was over -- except for the Stinkards poking through the low mound of fallen bodies, stabbing at anything that moved or looked whole. Their shamelessly greedy, lustful expressions were identical to those of the boys. 

Methos sat motionless, as if spellbound, while the commanders bellowed again. Men and boys turned to face Soroas, and raised their spears and shouted to him once more. Again, Soroas stood and returned their salute. Again, he sat down on the log and made a dismissive gesture. The boys' commander shouted them into line and marched them away, back down the road. The men returned to the pile of corpses, jabbing lazily, to no purpose that Methos could see. 

'Come now,' said Soroas, getting to his feet again. 'Let's back to the hall for a proper breakfast, eh? And are you ready for more beer?' 

'Not yet,' said Methos, hoping he didn't look too pale. 'Your drink is strong, and my head's still a little sore. Rather would I look over your sheep and other goods, to see what we might trade.' Seeing Soroas scowl in disappointment, he hastily added: 'And I would hear more of Yatar.' 

Soroas brightened at that, though his smile was calculating. 'In truth,' he agreed, 'It would not be amiss to reveal more of the wisdom of Yatar while looking over the sheep, for 'twas there I learned the great secret... Come, then: I'll show you.' 

All paths, Methos noted, came back to the great-hall. In the courtyard, where the paths met in a lopsided star, Soroas cast only a quick regretful glance at the hall -- where, doubtless, his beer waited -- chose another path and strode on. The sound of a rolled pebble under a careless foot alerted Methos to the knowledge that some of Soroas' guard crept behind them. Yes, Soroas' warriors were good at sneaking behind, at least -- though a shift of the wind to a keen nose could destroy that advantage. 

In a few moments the smell of the sheep-pen informed Methos of their destination. The stink was almost a relief, by comparison, even though the pen clearly hadn't been raked in days. 

The sheep were an ill-favored lot, small and thin and too often sickly, but their fleeces looked thick and their horns large. 'Good horns and hides,' Methos pronounced. 'For those and your beer, I'll trade oil and wine. But what secret of Yatar lies in the sheep-pen?' 

'Watch them,' said Soroas, leaning on the mud-and-stone wall of the pen. 'There are enough males and females here that soon enough one of them must... Aha! Look you there. See you what that ram is doing?' 

'Mounting a ewe.' Methos shrugged. 'What of this?' 

'And why, think you, he does that?' Soroas turned that eerily intent look on him. 

'For the pleasuring, of course. Why else?' 

'Ahahahahaha! And why--' Soroas cackled, 'Why, think you, did Ya-- the high gods make such to be pleasurable?' 

_Where is he going with this?_ 'It's simply the nature of beasts, or men.' 

Soroas shook his head, still laughing. 'No, not that alone. It's not the nature of any creature to live in pleasure, not in imperfect bodies, in an imperfect world. No, no, it must have a purpose, or it would not be. Think: is not also pleasurable to eat?' 

'Well, yes.' 

'And is it not necessary for man or beast to eat if it would live?' 

'Surely it is. So?' 

'So mating too must have a purpose. That purpose must serve the designs of living creatures. Think, think: what else must a beast do to live?' 

'Drink, piss, shit, flee from danger--' 

'It must breed!' Soroas stamped his food in impatience. 'Beasts and men must breed young, to replace themselves when their bodies fail and die.' 

'Well, of course. The females--' Methos felt dangerously lost. 

'Not just the females!' Soroas snapped. 'Have you never wondered how it is that a ram's pizzle goes in where a lamb comes out? Or that the same is true of all beasts? And have you never noticed that females who never go near males also never bear young?' 

Methos couldn't think of any females, of any creatures that he'd ever seen, kept away from males. 'I...confess I never thought of it.' 

Soroas shook sighed at Methos' thick-headedness. 'Then I'll tell you plainly. Males are needed for breeding. It is mating that makes the young grow in a woman's belly, not any secret magic of females.' 

'You're joking!' Methos couldn't help saying. 

'Oh no!' Soroas cackled again. 'It's true! Yatar revealed it to me, and I saw that it was true. I took some ewes and kept them apart from rams for a year, and never did they breed. When I put a ram among them, and he mounted them--' 

'But how is this possible?!' 

'The seed, you fool! The white fluid of a man's pizzle is seed! Like seed of wheat or barley, planted in the ground. The man's seed is planted in the woman's belly, and it grows into a child. It's so with all beasts. The seed!' 

Methos felt his jaw drop, and made no attempt to pull it up. 

'That's the secret women have kept from us for so long,' Soroas went on, beginning to foam again. 'They've made us think they alone made children, when it was ourselves! The woman is only the soil where the seed sprouts. They've lied to us, kept us bound to their wills, to what they claimed were their bloodlines, demanding duties of us for that... Oh, but they'll pay for that lie! I know how to make them pay! Pen them up like ewes, and make them breed sons for us, sons who'll grow up knowing the truth, true men, trained and battle-toughened, fit to overcome the women's cities. Yes, they'll pay! Breed sons! Make them give us sons!' 

Methos could only nod dumbly as Soroas ranted on, seeing the whole pattern of the man's madness. _I have to get out of here,_ he thought, but remembered he still had two other tasks. _See if another immortal is involved. Learn what became of Potnia._ He clamped down on his horror and thought fast. 

'Yatar,' he said, pasting a worshipful look on his face. 'I must speak with this Yatar.' 

The words cut off Soroas' ravings in mid-sentence. 'Yatar?' he repeated, an eerie smile spreading over his face. 'Yes, you must commune with Yatar. Come, Oinops. We'll go to his holy place now.' 

He grasped Methos' arm in a surprising grip and hauled him away from the sheep-pen. 

* * *

'So he was the one!' Sean blurted out. 'He discovered the secret of sex, of paternity-- Lord, that knowledge in the hands of a paranoid schizophrenic... And an organizational genius.' He shivered, just thinking about it. 

'It wouldn't be the first time a brilliant madman obsessed his way into power.' Methos stared bleakly into the flames. 'You never met Ivan the Terrible, did you? There've been others, and there will be more. I encountered an ugly little street-corner politician in Germany who had that same look. And there's this Stalin in Russia...' 

Sean pressed his arm around Methos' shoulders. 'We do what we can,' he said gently. 'We warn the world.' 

'If only the world will listen!' Methos almost sobbed. 'Or if people act in time, or do enough, or know enough...' He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. 

'But who or what was Yatar?' Sean nudged. 'Was he the genius behind Soroas' mad campaign?' 

'In a way.' Methos took a slow sip from the glass, visibly calming himself. 'Soroas bellowed for someone to fetch a sheep for sacrifice, and lo and behold, his guards appeared from the forest like magic. I had to look suitably surprised. Then he led us up a wide track that climbed the nearest mountain...' 

* * *

As they climbed the trail Methos came to realize that something was wrong with the mountain. The trees thinned out among the rocks, as expected, but the air didn't grow colder. On the contrary, it was hot -- and growing hotter by the pace. The smell of sulfur became noticeable, then strong enough to wash out the smell of the Stinkards and the sickly sheep. Ahead appeared a boulder painted with crude designs, and as they approached it Soroas raised a hand and shouted a command to his guards. The men stopped where they were, clustered close around the painted stone and pressed their hands to it as if drawing comfort, expressions of mixed fear and adoration slipping over their faces. 

'Carry it,' said Soroas, pointing to the bound and complaining sheep. 'None but I -- and you, bearing the sacrifice -- shall proceed.' 

No longer worried about collecting more fleas, Methos hauled the feebly struggling animal onto his shoulder. Its weight almost unbalanced him, and made walking difficult. If Soroas took it into his head to attack, Methos knew he'd be at a severe disadvantage. _I can always throw the sheep at him,_ he considered, letting Soroas pace further into the lead. 

Ignoring the rising heat and the almost unbreathable air, Soroas marched upward, softly chanting a half-coherent hymn of praise, and finally halted at the peak. Methos plodded after him, came up to a narrow ledge of bare stone where Soroas stood, and looked beyond. 

The sight made him stagger. 

The top of the mountain was as hollow as the fang of an adder. The ledge where he stood was part of the rim of a deep natural stone cup, its inner surface lined with grooves, and at the bottom of the cup was a pool of liquid fire. The pool glowed a deep red-orange, with occasional tongues of yellow flames darting up from its surface, and it hissed and rumbled softly to itself. This was the source of the heat, and the sulfur-stench. It was a volcano. 

Methos stared, awestruck. He'd heard of such things, but never seen one before. Looking into it, he couldn't imagine even the most insane of immortals setting foot inside that cup; those grooves were deep enough to conceal a human body, but that incredible heat -- it would be like burning to death, over and over. Besides, he felt no aura of another immortal. Comprehension dawned. 

'Yatar is...?' he panted. 

'There!' Soroas pointed downward, toward the lake of fire. 'I told you he was a spirit. The flame is nothing to him. This is his house, and his hearth-fire.' 

Methos drew a sharp breath, thinking fast. Yatar was not an immortal. He might be a High God, a force of nature with a conscious spirit driving it, or... 'How do we speak to him?' he panted. 

'Cast him the offering!' Soroas cried, arms wide and eyes wider. 

_Throw the sheep down there..._ Methos shuddered, thinking of the long fall and the hideous burning. _High God, if you can hear me, know that no creature deserves such a death as that!_

He pulled the feebly-struggling sheep off his shoulder, and took care to drop it on the stone ledge, on its head. The creature's bleating cut off suddenly. Methos hoped he'd broken its neck, that it was truly dead and not merely stunned, but there was no way to be certain. Cursing at his clumsiness for Soroas' benefit, he picked up the beast again and this time heaved it out into the crater. 

'Yes!' cried Soroas, and broke into a feverishly-fast chant that was cobbled together from bits and pieces of offering-hymns that Methos recognized from several lands. 

The sheep struck the side of the crater, bounced, and flopped bonelessly as it continued to fall. Surely it was dead, it had to be dead... 

Finally it hit the glowing pool of liquid fire. Flames splashed up around it, blackening the body instantly, then swallowing it. A thin column of smoke rose up the crater's throat, and with it came a thin hissing of wind. 

Soroas almost danced where he stood. His eyes rolled back in his head, and a stream of ecstatic gibberish poured from his mouth. Methos covered his eyes and crouched down, not knowing when Soroas would come out of his fit, hoping the man would see only his guest in a respectful attitude. 

The hissing wind ceased, leaving no sound but the distant rumble of the flames. Nothing else moved, no spirit spoke, and there was no sign that anything conscious was listening. 

The gibberish ceased, replaced by the sound of panting. Methos waited, only watching from behind his hands to make sure that Soroas didn't take a notion to fling his guest into the crater as well. 

Soroas took a clumsy step toward Methos and placed an almost gentle hand on his shoulder. 'Yatar has spoken,' he said. 'Did you hear him?' 

Methos licked his lips. 'I heard a great strange voice,' he ventured, 'But I could not understand what it said.' 

Soroas looked pleased. 'Many hear him,' he said, 'But only I understand his words. He welcomes you as a true man, but I am his chosen speaker.' 

'So you are,' said Methos, trying to look awed. 'So you are.' He couldn't keep from shivering, and hoped Soroas took it for flattery. 

'Let us return, then.' Soroas smiled and clapped his hands, and turned away from the crater's lip. 'We have much to discuss, you and I.' 

'Oh yes, and I want to pick out a woman for tonight.' Methos did his best to sound eager, but his thoughts were whirling. _Yatar is not a High God; he's nothing but that lake of fire and Soroas' madness. I have only one task left. Then I can escape._

'Yes, yes, the best of the women's house you shall have,' Soroas chortled, in a jolly temper, as if just recovering from a good mating. 'And now that you've met Yatar, what think you of him?' 

'He's most awesome,' Methos agreed quickly. 'Tell me, why did we cast him the sheep?' 

'He must have offerings, else he'll not speak,' Soroas dismissed the thought. 'And is he not mightier than all those piddling little demigods and goddesses of the sea-lands?' 

'Mighty he surely is.' _What manner of spirit must be bribed with a death even to speak to mortals?_ 'I see what you mean about the freedom and power of spirits.' 

'Yes, yes,' Soroas chortled. 'Greatest of spirits is he...' He launched into a long hymn of praise that lasted all through the march back down the mountain, and his Stinkard guardsmen listened intently to every word. He didn't wind down until they returned to the main courtyard and approached the great-hall. 

'Truly,' Methos tried. 'I must spread word of Yatar, and all you've told me. Surely there are other true men who need to know of this, out on the plains and possibly even in the cities -- where they chafe under the rule of the queens.' 

Soroas frowned slightly, saying nothing. Methos wondered if that meant the man was upset or only thinking hard about the words. 

'Surely, if such men can escape and come to you,' Methos went on, 'That would increase the numbers of your warriors, increase the numbers of the worshippers of Yatar.' 

'True, true...' Soroas brightened. 'It takes so long to breed and raise sons...' 

'I shall go out among the tribes of the plains,' said Methos, 'Trading goods as I've done before, but now I shall seek out the true men among them and whisper the truth in their ears. They shall make their way to you, doubt it not.' 

'Yes,' Soroas smiled, showing his teeth. 'And see if you can get us some more women, too. We haven't nearly enough to reward all my faithful..' 

At that point Methos heard screams and curses wafting out the door to the great-hall. A swift glance at Soroas showed that he was neither surprised nor worried. Methos ground his teeth and kept to Soroas' pace until they entered the hall. 

Inside, nearly a dozen Stinkards were clustered around one of the tables, laughing and joking crudely with each other. Bent across the table, his clothing gone, held down by a dozen hands, was Methos' guide from the plains-tribes. He was howling madly, and one of the Stinkards was forcibly mating him. Others pressed close, watching, laughing, awaiting their turns. 

'Here, that's my servant!' Methos snapped, lunging forward. With luck, he could fall on them fast and fiercely enough to drive off the lot of them. 

Soroas clamped a hand to his arm and held him back. 'Let be,' he snapped. 'The man is being punished for some offense against our law.' 

'What offense?!' Methos didn't dare pull away, and a guilty corner of his mind was grateful that he'd been spared an uneven battle. 

'I'll discover it.' Soroas left Methos where he stood, strolled over to the nearest Stinkard -- who saluted quickly, though the others didn't pause in their sport -- and briefly questioned the man. He returned, looking satisfied, while the rape continued behind him. 

'Your man was caught sneaking into the hall without permission,' Soroas explained past the noise. 'He might have been whipped, but the guards chose this punishment instead. Punishment for the offender, reward for the vigilant, all in one: most effective.' 

'I should like to hear my servant's account of it,' Methos grumbled, knowing there was nothing he could do here, not now. 

'Doubtless you shall,' Soroas smiled knowingly, 'And by then he may be singing a different note. Now, let us proceed to the women's house, where you shall choose a bed-mate for tonight.' 

He strode past the tables, toward the door to the rear of the house, not looking back. Methos followed quickly, trying to ignore the sounds behind him. Soroas led the way down the rough-walled corridor, out a doorway where Stinkard guards stood, down a covered walk to another building, smaller, with more guards at the door. The guards stepped respectfully aside, and Soroas flung open the door to reveal the interior of the house. 

'Behold the women's house of my realm,' Soroas said grandly. 

Methos took two steps inside, and froze. 

The building was a single large room with a central brazier to warm it. All around the walls lay clothes-chests and straw pallets, and occasional small low tables holding battered bowls and cups and pitchers. The walls and pallets were decked with ragged drapes of what had once been fine cloth, now smoke-stained and dirty. Several cushions, in much the same condition, cluttered the floor between the pallets and the brazier. On the pallets and cushions sat perhaps two dozen women, of different lands and breeds, decked in more worn and dirty finery. They stank of perfume, sweat and dirt, and they looked up with false smiles pasted on their faces. They were plainly slaves, ill-treated and unwashed. 

One of them, to judge by the unmistakable aura, was an immortal. 

_Potnia,_ Methos guessed. _It must be._ He made himself remember the portrait Atalanta had given him, and peered among the expectantly smiling faces. _She must be here._

He paced forward, feeling Soroas close behind him, looking at face after face. Some were similar, but none exactly fit the portrait. He couldn't be sure. Faces could change, especially after months of mistreatment... 

Oh, there: in the corner, half hidden behind a thin-faced woman in plainer dress, sat a woman with a veil over her head and a thick necklace of gold beads. Hers was the only face he hadn't seen, and he stepped closer. The thin-faced woman, who wasn't smiling, huddled protectively in front of the veiled one. 

'Hah, not that one!' Soroas snapped. 'That one's mine.' 

'Ah, yours?' Methos smiled, smiled. 'Might I see her face, then?' 

'Why?' Soroas growled, brows knitting in suspicion. 

'So I might know your tastes in women.' Methos forced his smile into a knowing leer. 'So I'll know what sort to bring you. I travel to all manner of lands, remember.' 

Soroas laughed and clapped Methos on the shoulder, then stepped boldly forward. He shoved the thin woman aside and yanked the veil off the decorated woman's head. 

_Yes._

The resemblance was unmistakable. There was the round face -- somewhat thinner now -- the dimpled chin, the long black ringletted hair, the wide-set large brown eyes... 

Her eyes didn't move. Neither did her frozen smile, nor her hands. She was motionless as a doll. 

Methos flicked a glance toward the thin woman, realizing that this must be the surviving priestess, and saw that her eyes were full of angry tears. 

'Pot'na my dear,' Soroas boomed, 'This is my guest, Oinops.' 

The woman twitched at the sound of his voice, and her lips moved enough to form words. 'Yes, milord,' she said, changing nothing else of her expression. 

'He desires to see your beauty, that it may haunt him the rest of his days.' 

'Yes, milord,' the woman twitched again. 

_Mindless,_ Methos understood, as a chill crawled up his back like an insect. _She didn't even react to my aura._ He didn't want to think of what mistreatment could have reduced the immortal woman to this, and he didn't want to look anymore. 'Most excellent,' he said, turning to Soroas. 'I don't think I'll find such a beauty as that very soon, but now I know what manner of beauty to seek.' 

'Yes,' Soroas purred, and dropped the veil back on Potnia's motionless head. 

The thin priestess hurried to adjust the cloth, casting a furtive but furious glance at Soroas. 

Not noticing that, the he-queen turned his attention to Methos. 'So,' he chuckled, 'Have you made your choice yet?' 

'Yes,' Methos agreed, thinking fast. 'I'll have that maid who tends your consort so well.' 

The thin priestess gave him a horrified look. 

'That one?' Soroas puzzled. 'But she's thin and mean-faced.' 

'Nonetheless,' Methos leered, 'Seeing how well she tends her mistress, I've no doubt she could tend well to me. Looks are all very fine, but they aren't everything.' He edged his way back toward the door, trying to divert Soroas' attention. 'It's much the same with horses. I've seen handsome creatures that couldn't draw my cart for a day without foundering, and then I've seen ugly little brutes on the plains that could pull all day and half the night without tiring. Actions, my good host, speak louder than appearances.' 

'True, all too true,' Soroas laughed. He gestured to one of the guards, then pointed at the cowering priestess in the corner. 'That one for my guest tonight,' he said. 'Try to pretty her up a bit. Now, Oinops, let's return to the hall for some serious planning -- and drinking.' He led Methos back toward the door and the covered walk. 'Yes, I'll want all the oil and wine you've brought, and I've enough sheepskins and horns, I believe, to fill your cart.' 

'Shall we not eat, then?' Methos asked, though he wasn't hungry. 

'Not until dinner,' said Soroas. 'A little bread on rising, a little more at mid-day, then the feast at evening. It maintains discipline; keep the men hungry while they work, then reward them afterward.' 

'Yes, very clever,' Methos offered the easy flattery as they returned to the back hallway. 'Do your people raise other livestock than sheep?' 

'A few goats up in the mountain heights,' Soroas shrugged, 'But their hides aren't very good.' 

'Sheepskins and horns it shall be, then.' Methos kept his voice calm as they came back into the great-hall. 

Another Stinkard had mounted the hapless guide, but this one had also reached under the man's legs to grasp his phallus, and was pumping it in time with his thrusts. The guide was no longer screaming, but groaning deliriously. 

'Ah, he's singing differently, as I told you,' said Soroas, following Methos' gaze. 'Soon enough he'll come to enjoy it. Then he'll be obedient enough, I promise you.' 

Methos suppressed another shiver. 'I'm concerned that they'll keep him at it too long. I need him fit to walk and care for my horses -- and my cart and goods.' 

'He can tend them during the feast. Better still, let's go look at your goods now, and arrange the trade.' 

'So be it,' Methos agreed, anxious to get away from the scene. 'I'll want to inspect the hides and horns before they're loaded.' 

* * *

'Our Lady have mercy,' Sean gulped, as Methos paused for another drink. 'Institutionalized rape... God, the meticulous sadism of the man! From what you've told me, I daresay he had an orgasm when you threw the sheep into the lava.' 

'I've no doubt he did.' Methos cradled the glass against his chest, its contents slopping a little even so. 'Mad, sadistic and brilliant. He'd found a way to appeal to men's basest desires and make them seem righteous. If ever evil walked in human form... Gods, if only I'd had the courage to push him into the crater! I didn't dare, because his men were close behind...but not that close...I could have done it...' 

'You couldn't have known you'd succeed,' Sean stopped him. 'You might have thrown your life away for nothing. Besides, you had to learn about Potnia and report back.' 

'Yes,' Methos whispered miserably, and took another mouthful of his drink. 

'And were you able to rescue your guide?' Sean steered his thought elsewhere. 

'No.' Methos set the glass, very carefully, back on the table. 'We went out to the barn and haggled, and Soroas sent men to fetch his goods and carry mine off. I must have wasted an hour or more, picking over mangy sheepskins and baskets full of horns, just so I wouldn't have to go back into the hall and watch...' He shuddered. 

'There was nothing you could do for him at that point, so there was no sense in tormenting yourself by watching.' 

Methos nodded slowly, once. 'I fussed over the loading until Soroas got bored and went away. When I came back into the hall, thank whatever gods there be, the gang had finished their fun and were off elsewhere. My guide was lying like a dead man. I found most of his clothes, got him to his feet and hustled him out to the barn, cursing and complaining for the benefit of the guards. I settled him on the straw under the cart, covered him with a blanket, tried to comfort him as best I could...' 

'All you could do.' 

'It didn't help.' Methos raised his head and stared at the dwindling fire. 'His eyes were half-open, but he didn't respond. They'd broken him, and I couldn't heal him...barely managed to get some water down his throat. I stayed with him until the guards blew the horn for dinner, and nothing changed. Had to leave him...' 

'I don't see that you had another choice.' 

'Dinner was hell. Burnt mutton, more bread and beer, more fleas... The dinner entertainment was an old slave, with the luck to have a good voice and a good memory, who chanted a long pointless ballad about Yatar killing some primordial High Goddess and building the world out of her carcass.' 

'I've heard something like that,' Sean remembered. 'I think it's an old Babylonian myth.' 

'And afterwards the guards brought in two dogs and made them fight. The crowd loved it.' Methos hitched his shoulders. 'The winning dog wasn't interested in killing the loser, so one of the guards speared it. Great fun.' 

'And I suppose Soroas sent the winning dog off to breed with all the bitches in his kennel.' 

'How did you guess?' 

'It fits his pattern.' 

'Yes.' Methos took a deep breath, lurched to his feet and strode unsteadily toward the fireplace. He knelt with infinite care, tossed more coals onto the grate, and came tottering back to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions like a sack of meal, reached shakily for his glass, then thought better of it. 'Nobody could leave before Soroas did,' he resumed, 'And he stayed up half the night. Finally...finally, when everyone else was falling-down drunk, he walked out. I made my way to the guest-room...' 

* * *

The thin-faced priestess was chained to the bed, just as the first woman had been, but she'd pulled as far from it as the chain would allow. Methos barred the door and put his ear to the wood to make certain no one stood near enough to overhear, then turned to face the woman and made the formal gesture of one sea-lands priest to another. The woman's jaw dropped, but she had the sense to make no sound. Methos gestured her toward the bed, and she moved quickly. He picked up the cup of beer, handed it to her and sat down beside her. She wrinkled her nose, but then drank. 

'Who are you?' she dared to ask quietly. 

'I was sent by the goddess Atalanta,' he whispered back. _No sense telling her all of it. A careless word..._ 'I came to spy out the land and learn what became of Potnia.' 

'My goddess...' The priestess pressed her hand to her face, and her shoulders trembled. 'Her spirit is gone. He tormented her in horrible ways, for two long moons. She begged me to cut off her head, but I had no means to do it. And now...' 

'Hush.' Methos slipped an arm around her shoulders. He had to ask this. 'Did Soroas learn that she was indeed immortal, and could survive torments that would kill a mortal?' 

The priestess only nodded her head, jerkily. 

Methos hissed through his teeth. The odds had changed again. 'And...did he learn the secret of how to kill an immortal?' 

'No, no,' she sobbed. 'I watched, listened...the horrible things he did to her...but that was the one thing she never told...not to him, only to me. Ohhh, my lady!' 

'She did have courage,' Methos whispered, 'And might have it again, can she but regain her soul. Listen: have you found any means to escape?' 

The woman drew a harsh breath, and reined herself back under control. 'If there were some way to distract the guards for a moment, I could get out the door and into the forest. After that, I could run southwest to the coast. I know the means to get food from the forest. But my lady...' She spread her hands helplessly. 'I can't leave her, not like this.' 

Methos squared his shoulders as details of his plan fell into place. 'Will she do as you say? Would she run if you told her to do it? Would she stay hidden if you bade her, or eat what you put in her mouth?' 

'Yes.' The priestess gave him a long look. 'We would need a long diversion...and some manner of weapon.' 

Methos pulled a small dagger out of a pouch on his belt. 'Can you hide this?' he asked, handing it to her. 

'Yes!' She clutched it greedily. 'The guards search us sometimes, but not very well. What diversion, and when will it come?' 

'Fire,' he said. 'In a few days; I don't know how soon I can be shed of the spies. Listen: as soon as the alarm is raised, manage to kick over the brazier or knock down one of the torches in the women's house. Make certain the fire spreads, and the smoke. Before then, take off her veil and hide her jewelry, and dress her in clothes that look no different from the others', so no one can recognize her quickly. Get her away from the guards and into the forest as fast as you can. Kill any who try to stop you. Can you do that?' 

'I learned a few things from the Ia-ma-zone'i.' The priestess smiled grimly. 'I daresay these talking pigs don't expect a thin little woman to know how to kill.' 

'And will any of the other women have the sense to scatter to the four winds?' 

'Most of them,' she considered. 'A few are fools, and will run about aimlessly, screaming for protection.' 

'Good. That will improve your chances.' Methos paused, trying to think of anything else he should tell her, and could think of nothing. 'I'm sorry, but this is all I can give you.' 

'It's enough,' the woman whispered, hiding the dagger under her dress. 'Now... Since I must stay here until the servants free me in the morning, please, will you tell me news of my home? I come from Truia.' 

'I'm sorry, but I've never seen Truia. I live in Sarmatia, but I've been to Atalantis...' 

He told her of his travels until they both fell asleep. 

* * *

'Brave woman,' Sean said, with feeling. 'Did they escape?' 

'...think so...' Methos refilled his glass. The bottle, Sean noted, was almost empty. 'I heard, years later, of a goddess named Potnia...worshipped among the steppe tribes. Symbolized as a she-bear, she was so fierce: defended women, slaughtered men and made furniture of their bones...unless they were very, very careful to po-- propi-ti-ate her...' 

_Thank god the alcohol's finally taking effect,_ Sean thought, watching him. 'But she never returned to the civilized city-states?' 

'No. ...And I never learned what happened to the priestess.' 

'And did your guide escape too?' 

'No.' Methos shivered, though the fire was high again. 'When I came out to the barn in the morning, I couldn't find him anywhere. Soroas came to see me off. I asked about my guide, and he said...the man chose to stay, join the Sons of Yatar. Showed me. I saw him, among the troops being drilled: glassy-eyed and obedient. Not quite as mindless as Potnia, but then, they'd worked on him for only one night.' 

'Mother of Mercy...' 

'Soroas offered me his own guides instead. A trick. I accepted, and we rolled away. Pushed the horses as fast as I could. First night, I got them drunk on the last of my wine so they couldn't try anything while I was asleep. Second day, we passed beyond Soroas' lands, sentries, spies.' 

'Ah, and did the...Stinkards turn back then?' 

'No, no, they wouldn't leave. I knew then I'd have to kill them. Put poison in the stew we all ate that night. We all died, but I revived.' 

'I see.' 

'I spent a day burying the bodies, so the vultures wouldn't warn anyone.' Methos' voice grew stronger, more harsh. 'Hid the cart. Staked out the horses near grass and water. Then I turned back.' 

* * *

It had been a long journey on foot, but lacking a horse made it easier to hide in the long grass. No sentries or patrols had found him, and no dogs had scented him -- thanks to the thick coating of mud plastered all over his skin. The mud also killed the fleas, which made him feel a little less filthy. He traveled light, carrying only his bow and quiver, axe and small pot, and flints for making fire. He'd made no fire yet, eating only what raw fruit, nuts and roots he could find, leaving no sign of his passage. 

Evening of the fifth day brought him back to Soroas' stronghold. He crouched in a tree on the hill overlooking the great-hall, silently coaxing the tinder in the pot to flame, and watching the proceedings below. The feast was in full swing, and with no strangers in camp to worry about, the sentries were few. Methos noted how bowls of food and horn after horn of beer were brought out to the two guards at the door, making them looser and sloppier as the feast progressed. Methos fed dried twigs to his tiny fire, and waited. 

Darkness swallowed the world, save for the two guttering torches at the doorway of the hall and the splinters of light between the chinks in the door and walls. The noise from within rose and sank, slowly but surely as the tide. The door-guards, cautiously at first, then with more confidence, leaned and then sat against the wall. Slowly they grew still, and their spears slid to the ground. Slowly, slowly, the sounds from the hall sank away to silence. The torches dimmed to little more than coals. 

_It's time,_ Methos judged. He fanned the flame in the fire-pot, then held it between his feet as he ignited the first oil-and-rag-wrapped arrowhead. The arrowhead caught well, and he set it quickly to his bow, drew, aimed at the spot in the dark where he knew the hall's roof was, and fired. 

The arrow landed solidly, and flames began spreading through the thatch. Now the second arrow: into the roof of the women's house. The third took the roof of the walkway, and the fourth caught the other end of the great-hall. Soroas' bedroom was at that end. 

Methos let the fire in the pot die as he watched the flames spread over the buildings below. A few squeals and cries came from the direction of the women's house, but nothing yet from the great-hall. High Gods, could the Stinkards be that thoroughly drunk? Methos watched, hope leaping in his heart, as the fire spread across the thatch. Only when the roofs were blazing from end to end did the door-guards rouse and cry in alarm. By that time Methos could catch glimpses of women's dresses darting from the end of the walkway, more than two of them. 

_Diversion enough,_ he thought as he slung the bow on his back and the now-dead fire-pot onto his belt. There was light enough now to help him climb quickly down the tree, and after that he could feel his way through the forest, away from the rising cries and increasing roar of the fire. He'd keep going in the dark until daylight, then travel faster. Once out on the plains, he could find his way to the horses and cart. 

From far behind, he heard a ghastly scream rising -- a man's voice, in horrendous pain. Methos hoped it was Soroas, imagined the man writhing in the embrace of his cherished fire-god, and was appalled at the fierce joy he felt. 

  
Twenty days later, ragged but clean at last from repeated washings in various streams, Methos presented himself to the temple at Truia. His passwords and amulets got him a private audience with the local goddess, and two days later he was on a ship to Atalantis. 

The day he landed, the goddess sent him swiftly to the private room. She came in, alone again, after dinner. 

Methos told her everything. 

Atalanta paced up and down the length of the guest-room, frowning intently. 'You can't be sure,' she said at last, 'That this Soroas is dead. Surely, many of his men survived. The threat is still active.' 

'Very,' said Methos, wondering if it would be seemly for him to refill his winecup. He hadn't watered the last wine at all. 

'Yet you're certain Potnia escaped?' 

'I saw at least three women get away. Given her priestess' determination, I'm quite sure that Potnia was one of them.' 

'We've had no word of her,' Atalanta frowned. 

'It would be slow traveling, on foot through the forest, stopping to get food and tending a mindless idiot.' Methos twitched at the memory. 'The priestess was very devoted. She would do anything rather than let her goddess fall again into the hands of the Stinkards.' 

Atalanta shuddered visibly. 'A great evil, which must be burned out,' she said. 'Truia must bear the brunt of the labor, yet I'll send all the troops and supplies I can -- and flog the other cities to do likewise. This is a plague which threatens all of us. Oh, I can't see how the High Gods allow such abomination! Such cruelty and arrogance...' 

'Pray that the cauldron of Yatar overflows on its worshippers.' 

'We must do more than pray,' muttered Atalanta. 'The cities must prepare for such a war as never was seen, and I'm not sure I can persuade them all before the evil spreads. And if any of the Stinkards escape, it will be worse: far greater cost, and labor, enough to impoverish many a city. We shall have to fortify every city: ring-ditches and walls, perpetual guards, more ships for sea-patrols. I don't doubt that some of the Stinkards might know the art of ship-building, and there are pirates enough who might be persuaded...' 

'Atalanta,' Methos cut in rudely, too worried and angry for politeness, 'Was there any truth in what Soroas said, about males being necessary for breeding?' 

Atalanta stopped in mid-stride, and gave him a long look. 'This is all we know,' she said. 'Among mortals, a female who never mates with a male shall never have children. Yes, males are necessary -- but just how, and to what extent, we don't know.' 

'Then what he said about seed...' 

'Not true: that I can tell you.' Atalanta smiled. 'Have you never seen children who strongly resembled their mothers? Be assured, the female is far more than a plowed field.' 

Methos drew a long breath, thinking that over. 'Even so,' he said, 'If the male is needed, then the mother's bloodline is not the only consideration.' 

'I know.' Atalanta's gaze reached far beyond the comforting walls. 'The customs will change. Males shall gain standing. Already there is talk, in Mycenae, of honoring the goddesses' consorts in the ceremonies. Is that what you wished to hear?' 

'Yes.' Methos leaned back on the cushions. 'That will end the dissatisfaction on which Soroas feeds. I'll dare to say that, given the same rewards as girls, boy-children could grow to become as educated and mature as women. I'll even dare to claim that ultimately there must be complete equality between them, in all things.' 

Atalanta gave him a keen look. 'Don't judge others by yourself, Methos,' she said. 'You're a male, yes, but also an immortal. You've had centuries to learn and mature.' 

'Mortal men might do it in decades, if educated properly,' Methos insisted. 'I saw what changes can be made in a man's mind; if it can be done for evil, it can be done for good also.' 

'High Gods,' Atalanta murmured, running her fingers abstractedly through her hair. 'The changes, the confusion... Who would take precedence in the family? Would male children inherit from their mothers or their mothers' consorts? How would the family names be perpetuated? How would property be divided? There's so much...' 

'Argue it beforehand, before it becomes necessary,' Methos urged. 'Have some idea how to proceed before change is thrust upon us. The world is changing, and we can't deny it.' 

'I'll think on it,' Atalanta promised. 'And you: will you return to Sarmatia?' 

'For a time.' Methos tapped his fingers thoughtfully. 'Soon, though, I think I should go to Truia.' 

'Truia already has a ruling goddess,' Atalanta smiled, 'But I believe there are some neighboring lands along the shore, near Caria, that lack divine heroes or goddesses. Tell me why you wish to go there.' 

'To keep watch for Potnia, if possible. I feel some responsibility for her safety,' Methos admitted. 'Also, to keep an ear to the ground for sign of Soroas' poisonous teachings. Being male, I can win the trust of other men who might harbor such sympathies.' 

Atalanta gave him another keen look, then asked bluntly: 'Do you wish to lead the army against Soroas?' 

'Gods, no!' Methos yelped. 'I never want to come near them again!' He stopped quickly, knowing he'd already said too much. 

'Why?' was all Atalanta asked. 

'Because...' Methos ran an abstracted hand through his hair. 'I...I think I've been corrupted too.' 

Atalanta sat down beside him, gently turned his face toward hers and asked: 'How?' 

'Killing...' he whispered. 'When I saw the fire devouring the hall...when I heard a man's voice screaming from the flames, and thought it was Soroas... I enjoyed it. I was...delighted at that sound. Soroas taught me hatred, bloodlust and cruelty like that.' He shuddered. 'Atalanta, I can no longer trust myself in battle -- especially not against the Stinkards. I would be taken by a desire to kill them all, even my poor guide if I saw him. I can't risk that madness. I should stay away from this war, from all wars. I should go live among people at peace, gentle and kindly people, the opposite of the Stinkards, until I've worn out this...corruption.' 

'I understand,' said Atalanta. 'I'll explain it to the goddess at Truia, and she'll find what you need.' 

'Soon, I hope.' Methos looked away, vividly remembering the dreams that had haunted him all the way along his return journey. 'I need purifying, quickly.' 

Atalanta pressed a comforting hand to his shoulder. 'You shall have what you need,' she promised, 'But don't blame yourself for needing it. I can't imagine that any decent person would not feel as you felt, having seen what you've seen.' 

'Even so, I'm...dirtied.' 

'Hush.' Atalanta squeezed his shoulder a little harder. 'Consider: the High Gods made everything to a purpose, including our passions. It could be that this -- the need to eradicate abominations like this -- is what hatred and bloodlust are for.' 

Methos shuddered again, imagining that. 'And if I meet any who are amenable to Soroas' seductions...would I be justified in hating them? Even killing them, and being...pleased at the killing?' 

'That would depend on the degree to which they resemble Soroas,' she said. 'I trust your judgement in determining that degree.' 

'I wish I could,' Methos sighed. 'At the very least, I need some time among decent people in order to...balance myself.' 

'I'll see that you have it.' 

'Thank you. I'll return to Sarmatia on the next ship. Please inform me when I can proceed to Truia.' 

'I will. Assume two moons for the messages to travel.' 

Methos drew a deep breath. 'Two moons to wait in Sarmatia. I can settle my affairs there in that time.' _I can wait that long. I can talk to Balo. I can start healing._

'Plan your strategy well, then,' said Atalanta. 'I pray we'll meet again, with better news for each other.' 

* * *

'...But I never saw her again.' Methos sipped from his glass, then carefully set it down. 'I settled affairs in Sarmatia as fast as I could, went to Truia, gained rule of that land along the coast. Simple place. Good people. I was happy there.' 

'Yes, that part I know.' Sean gently kneaded Methos' shoulders. 'Did you hear anything further about Soroas and his kingdom?' 

'Bits of news...' Methos leaned gratefully into the touch. 'Second-hand tales of armies gathered in Truia, going to clean out a robbers' nest. Rumors about Potnia. Stories from Akkad by way of Caria, of pernicious priests spreading lies about the goddesses...' Methos flinched suddenly, and groaned. 'Ohh, we didn't clean them all out! Some got away: students of his methods, maybe Soroas himself. The poison did spread, in the end. It did. Ah, High Gods, why didn't I kill him when I had a chance?!' 

'You tried, remember?' Sean said firmly, squeezing a little harder. 'You burned down the hall, with him inside.' 

'I should have stayed to make sure.' A distinctive brightness glittered in Methos' eyes. 'I should have thrown him down the crater. Gods, was it duty or cowardice stopped me? The evil spread, in time it poisoned the world -- and I could have stopped it, right there, by killing that one man.' 

'One man alone doesn't change the world--' 

'Alexander! Caesar! Genghis Khan!' Methos cried. The brightness spilled from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. 

'--Not without great social forces behind him. Soroas exploited a weakness that already existed in the surrounding society.' 

'He also learned the tricks of appealing to men's sins, warping children from an early age, making use of invisible emperor-gods. All that, he did. Just that one man...' 

'And what one man could discover, others could,' Sean insisted sternly. 'He wasn't the only one to learn the secret of breeding, and all the rest -- others could have learned it piecemeal. There were similar attitudes among the Indians of Tierra Del Fuego, long before European explorers met them; they invented it for themselves. So have others. It wasn't just him, Methos -- and it wasn't just you.' 

Methos slumped back against the cushions, into Sean's encircling arm, crying softly. Sean wrapped both arms around him and held him close, and Methos made no effort to stop him. 

'Not your fault, my friend,' Sean murmured to him. 'You did your best to fight the evil, turn the tide.' 

'Then, yes...' Methos whispered. 'Not later. Later...I yielded to it. Embraced it. The new way of the world... 'Come, Devil, for unto thee is this world given'...' 

'Out of despair?' Sean guessed. 

'Despair, hatred, terror...' Methos eyes lost focus, fixing on the long past. 'I've done hideous things in my time.' 

'We've all done things we're ashamed of, and none of us are immune to such passions.' 

'I yielded. Became like Soroas. Let his ways corrupt me.' 

'For a time,' Sean reminded him. 'You're no longer like that.' 

'For a time...' Methos admitted. 

'A man can change, for good or evil -- and back.' 

'The world can change.' Methos' breathing quieted. 'If I live long enough, I might see...' 

'The ancient virtues restored?' Sean guessed. 'It's possible.' He remembered that disturbing book. 'I think knowledge is the key. Inform people that the world wasn't always like this, society didn't always think like this, that other ways are possible. That knowledge alone can make a difference.' 

Methos visibly struggled to think. 'Convince them...perhaps become an archeologist, dig up the old cities, write my interpretations and publish... Gods, I'll be just one man against the tide, again.' 

'But if that tide has run its course, and is about to turn...' Sean nudged. 

'I'll help,' Methos decided. 'What little I can...first stone in a jetty, but in time...' 

'You'll have time,' Sean promised. 'You've lasted this long.' 

'I'll last longer,' Methos said firmly. 'This will be a long war. The evil won't yield quickly, or easily. So many plague-spots I've seen in my travels: Russia, Germany, China...' 

'A long war,' Sean agreed. 'You'll fight it in your way, I in mine -- and I think there are others we might recruit. There's Darius, here in France, and I believe Marcus Constantine's back in England, and there's a Duncan MacLeod in America. Men of good will everywhere, Methos: thanks to modern communications, we can speak to all of them. Spread the knowledge, my friend. It can be done.' 

'Yes.' Methos heaved a vast sigh, and closed his eyes. 'God, I'm tired.' 

'Understandably. Loosen your shirt, and lie down. You can nap on my couch as long as you like. Later, I'll send the dragon to ready the guest-room.' 

'Mmm...' 

Methos dutifully unbuttoned his cuffs and stretched out on the couch. He fell asleep while Sean was shoving another cushion under his head. Sean pulled the throw-rug off the back of the couch and spread it over Methos in place of a blanket, then sat down on the floor to finish off the last of the cherry liqueur. 

_If only he'll stay a little longer,_ Sean hoped, knowing too well that Methos would most likely wake up as his usual armored self, toss out a few quips and excuses, and hurry away again. _At least, I can make him promise to come again next year. A very long course of treatment._

Then again, the scars in Methos' spirit had been there for a very long time, too. 

Since before the fall of Atlantis, to be precise. 

\--END-- 

* * *

© 2003-2004   
Please send comments to the author! 

02/24/2004 

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